Catch a Falling Star
by gammadolphin
Summary: What should be a standard rescue involving a damaged satellite quickly turns into something much more sinister, and International Rescue will never be the same.
1. Into the Void

_**A/N:**_ _So, I've been a Thunderbirds fan in a big way since I was eight, but I'd never really been part of the fandom until I started watching the new animated series. Now here we are. This was inspired in part by LenleG's_ Bring Our Starman Home _, and if you've read that, you should have an idea of what you're getting yourself in for._

 _Also, for anyone who prefers the AO3 format, this story is crossposted there with the same title, but under the author username jontracy._

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 _"Are you sure there's_ no one _who needs rescuing? A ship sinking somewhere? A collapsed mine? Please, John, I'll take a cat up a tree; I'm_ begging _you here."_

Gordon's eyes were wide and pleading, larger than life in the bluish tint of the hologram. But John hadn't been suckered by that look in years.

"You're the one who volunteered to be Parker's replacement for the day while he's on jury service," he reminded his brother without remorse. "In fact, I seem to remember you insisting that Lady Penelope not hire a temp, that you'd be _thrilled_ to help her instead."

Gordon shot a nervous glance at something over his shoulder before leaning in closer to his communicator, scowling. John let himself drift back a little; he really didn't feel like counting his brother's nose hairs.

 _"I thought it was just gonna be driving her around a little, maybe going to tea, or whatever!"_ Gordon hissed. _"But it's just_ shopping _. All. Day. And most of these places don't even have comfy chairs! My feet feel like they're about to fall off. And like half the oxygen's been replaced with perfume! I'm probably gonna smell like Secret Seductive Flower Power or whatever until I_ die."

John suppressed a snort; encouraging Gordon's dramatics was a dangerous road.

"You still gonna try to tell me how great romance is?" he asked, contenting himself with a smug smirk.

Gordon pulled a face at him.

 _"I'm starting to think you might have the right idea after all, Space Ace,"_ he said. _"I asked Lady Penelope how many more stores she thought she might want to go to, and she just_ laughed."

John's smirk widened; he knew Penny was torturing Gordon on purpose. She liked to shop, sure, but even she rarely devoted whole days to it. She'd even invited Kayo along this time, ostensibly for some "girl time," but really to give her the opportunity for some payback. Gordon really should have known better than to mess with Kayo's shampoo. Women never forgot.

Before John could respond to his brother, a flashing alarm appeared on his console. The kind that meant someone else was in trouble, not the kind that meant he had five seconds to get his helmet on and hope for the best. He squinted at it, noting its designation and relative location.

"I've gotta go," he said.

Gordon brightened at once, like a Golden Retriever spotting a tennis ball.

 _"Is it a rescue?"_ he asked. _"Do you need me? I can-"_

"It's coming from space," John cut in. He wrestled his amused expression into a stern look. "You made your bed, and now it's time to lie in it. Give Lady Penelope my regards."

He cut Gordon's feed and focused on the alarm. It was indeed coming from space, not too far from where Thunderbird 5 was orbiting. A quick trace of the signal led to a manned satellite, a small model. There only appeared to be one crewman on board.

John patched through the audio.

 _"-yday, mayday! This is Stelair Satellite 2-1. I've been hit by an asteroid, and my life support systems are failing. Can anyone hear me? I repeat-"_

"Stelair Satellite, this is International Rescue," John said calmly, his fingers flitting over his controls as he ran the usual scans. "I'm reading you loud and clear. Please give me the details of your situation."

 _"My satellite got clipped by an asteroid a minute ago. I thought maybe I'd gotten by without much damage, but I'm venting oxygen like mad! My supply will be completely gone in a few minutes!"_

John thought it far more likely that the satellite had been struck by a meteoroid rather than its larger cousin the asteroid, but somehow he didn't think that the distinction would be of the utmost interest to the other astronaut just then.

"Stay calm," he advised. "We'll get you to safety."

He hacked - er, _acquired access to_ \- the satellite's internal computer systems. He pulled up a set of 3D schematics, and grimaced. That pilot hadn't been kidding when he said he only had a few minutes left. He muted the connection to the satellite, and called Tracy Island.

Scott was the only one in the main room, sitting on one of the couches and frowning down at a tablet in his lap, brow creased. It was the expression he got whenever he was dealing with a business problem that he couldn't blast out of his way, and John made a mental note to check with him later and make sure that nothing too catastrophic was plaguing their father's company. Now though, they had other priorities.

John always felt a little ridiculous addressing one person as International Rescue, so he just said, "we have a situation."

Scott looked up and set his tablet aside at once, listening carefully as John outlined the problem.

 _"Sounds simple enough,"_ he said. _"Alan and Virgil just finished up that lunar shuttle mission; have them reroute to the satellite."_

"No need." John switched Scott's projection to his wrist communicator and launched himself into a graceful glide across the control room to the exit. "This is close enough for me to deal with myself. And like you said, it should be fairly simple."

 _"How about we send Thunderbird 3 as backup anyway?"_ Scott said, eyebrow raised. _"Save them from having to rush later when you get attacked by more killer robots."_

"That was _one time."_

And what a time it had been. There had been the making of a new friend, brotherly…er, _bonding_ , the rescue of self-proclaimed pirates, the accidental earning of a robot's wrath. The ghost scare, John could've done without.

"All right," he added to Scott as he entered the small launch bay for the exo-pod and felt it rumble to life around him. "Go ahead and call them for me. But I'm still gonna get a head start."

 _"Careful, John; your Tracy is showing."_

The words were said teasingly, but they still made something in John swell with quiet pride. He'd never been the flashiest of the Tracy boys, didn't crave the hands-on action and excitement that the others seemed to, didn't always quite sync with the rest of them. It was nice to be reminded that he still belonged with them, that he was _one_ of them, no matter how seemingly different.

And maybe there _was_ a little rush of exhilaration in his veins as his flight suit assembled around him. Maybe something inside him did hum with anticipation at the thought of running his own rescue.

"Exo-pod is go," he said a moment later, and then he was flying through the stars.

God, but he would never get tired of this. He knew his brothers didn't quite understand how he could spend so much time up here in the cold solitude of space, how he could prefer it to being on Earth, but that was because no words could ever convey what this _felt_ like. To be one with the cosmos, no noise or atmosphere or people separating him from the stars, from the fabric of the very universe.

But he didn't have time to bask in the experience just then.

"Stelair Satellite, are you still reading me?" he asked.

 _"Yeah, yes! I can hear you! Where are you? I'm running out of oxygen!"_

John knew the feeling. He let the calm urgency of a rescue settle over him as he took the controls of the exo-pod. He'd had a little more practice since the first time he'd used this thing, and it felt natural and easy now to coax a burst of speed from the machine, to let it carry him toward his mission.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'm on my way."

* * *

Virgil wasn't too proud to admit that he was exhausted. He'd never been the biggest fan of space (read: he and space weren't even on speaking terms), but that hadn't much mattered when a shuttle full of tourists had suffered electrical problems and ended up nearly crashing on the dark side of the moon. It had taken all of his and Alan's combined skill to prevent the worst space tragedy in decades, and it had involved several close calls.

So he couldn't help being grateful when Scott called and told him that while there was a new rescue to be carried out, Thunderbird 5 would be taking point. Grateful, but not surprised, really. John always did seem to know how to look out for him, for all of them, in his own way.

 _"Docking at the satellite now,"_ John reported.

Alan shot a glance over at Virgil, his eyebrow quirked in a mischievous expression that had his big brother bracing himself automatically. Alan punched his comm button.

"See any ghosts?" he asked.

 _"Very funny,"_ John replied dryly. _"Why don't you just focus on piloting?"_

"Oh, I can multitask," Alan told him. But he did stop ribbing John, recognizing the need to let him concentrate on the rescue.

 _"There appears to be only minimal external damage,"_ John said after a moment. _"But it all depends on what got hit. I'll reestablish contact with the pilot and get a sit-rep."_

 _"F.A.B. John,"_ said Scott. _"I'm monitoring you from Dad's old workstation. Not as fancy as the tech on Thunderbird 5, but it should do."_

 _"Hey, I may be a bit of a tech snob, but if it was good enough for Dad, it's good enough for me. Stand by."_

They waited as John tried to make contact with the astronaut, but there was no answer to his repeated hails.

 _"John, I'm not picking up any life signs,"_ Scott reported after a tense pause.

 _"Then there must be something wrong with the old equipment after all, because the sensors in my pod are still picking up readings for one person. Maybe the oxygen leak was faster than I expected, and the pilot is unconscious."_

John's tone had taken on an increased level of urgency, and Virgil could understand why. They took every rescue seriously, but John had a unique personal perspective on this one. He knew better than anyone what it was like to be stranded alone in space while his oxygen slowly ran out, not knowing if help would get to him in time.

 _"I've found the external access point. Going in now."_

 _"Be careful, Thunderbird 5,"_ Scott warned.

John didn't answer, but that was hardly unusual. They were all too used to Scott's worrywart tendencies by now to pay them much mind.

Virgil checked the nav system to see how far out Thunderbird 3 was. At their current speed, they'd reach the satellite in a little under ten minutes.

Huh. Make that seven. Virgil shot a glance over at Alan, who shrugged.

"If it's gonna be an interesting one, I don't want to miss it," he said shamelessly.

"Ugh." Virgil rolled his eyes with mock drama. "To be young and blessed with boundless energy. Not all of us are all fired up to go bouncing around space again."

"Oh right, my mistake. I forgot I'd been running a rescue with a Millennial."

"Hey now, I'm not _that_ old-"

 _"Guys, something's wrong."_

John's words and tone had Virgil dropping his theatrics and Alan increasing power to the thrusters at once.

"What is it?" Virgil asked when his brother didn't follow up on his alarming proclamation. "John?"

 _"Something about this pattern of damage…it's too- shit!"_

The language alarmed Virgil worse than anything else so far. John was no shrinking violet, but he usually liked to keep things professional over the official comms, especially when Alan was part of the team. Old habits.

 _"John?"_ asked Scott's concerned voice.

 _"I don't have much time. I've got to find-"_

His voice cut out with an abrupt crackle.

"John?!" It was impossible to distinguish one voice from the next as Virgil, Scott, and Alan all called out to their brother. But the response didn't come from him.

 _"There's been an explosion!"_ If it was possible for an automated voice to sound alarmed, EOS' did.

Thunderbird 3 shuddered slightly as Alan's hands jerked on the controls. Virgil was pressed back in his seat as Alan recovered and coaxed an extra burst of speed from the rocket.

"What do you mean?" he managed, a little breathless from the added pressure on his chest.

 _"She's- she's right,"_ said Scott. _"I'm picking up readings of a small explosion from the satellite's area, and the signal from the satellite itself just cut out."_

"What about the signal from _John_?" Virgil demanded.

 _"I don't- I'm not- EOS, are you getting anything from him?"_

 _"John's signal is…gone,"_ EOS reported, her childlike voice sounding almost shocked. Numb. _"I'm detecting no heat signatures or other signs of life."_

"They're just being masked by the heat and radiation from the explosion," Alan said with complete, determined confidence. "Or his comms got fried. But you know how he's always saying Brains over-engineers everything. No way the exo-pod _and_ his suit didn't protect him."

That sounded reasonable, didn't it? And surely Alan would know, as the second space expert of the family. John was fine, he had to be fine. He'd just damaged his comms, like Alan had said. It certainly wouldn't be the first time one of them-

Virgil's stomach turned quite abruptly to lead. He sat forward in his seat so quickly he bruised his shoulders against the unforgiving restraints, eyes straining to see the wreckage that was scattered before them.

A _small_ explosion, Scott had said. Virgil couldn't fathom what reference frame he'd been using.

The debris field glittering before them was vast and spreading rapidly, the momentum from the explosion carrying it without resistance through the cold vacuum of space. It was utterly unrecognizable; what had apparently only moments ago been a damaged but mostly intact satellite, now nothing but so much twisted metal. None of the drifting scraps was larger than a car door, save for the warped, half-melted skeleton of what must have been the main body of the satellite, now about as spaceworthy as a cheese grater. Gaping holes yawned in its pitted surface, many of them going clear through to show the dark and unforgiving backdrop of space on the other side.

John had been _inside_ that.

 _"Virgil?"_ Scott asked. _"How bad is it?"_

Virgil stared numbly at the wreckage. It felt almost like a dream, like if he concentrated hard enough, the horror before him would dissolve into a new scene. But no dream had ever left him so cold, feeling like he was teetering on the edge of an unfathomable chasm.

"Too bad," he heard himself whisper, feeling like the words were coming from someone else. "It-it's _too bad_ , Scott. _Scott,_ he- he couldn't've-"

"No!" Alan cried. "No, it just looks bad." He flipped a few switches on his console and then yanked off the restraints holding him in his seat. "Come on, Virgil, we have to help him!"

But they were back in Virgil's wheelhouse now, to a degree. He might not have the nuances of space down, but he knew explosions. He'd grown up on a steady diet of _Mythbusters_ reruns, had studied physics and engineering in college. He'd made a life out of the science of destruction, so that he could keep it at bay, could help protect others from it, aid them in its aftermath. He even harnessed it for himself sometimes, taking a private thrill in the power at his disposal, to be mastered like another instrument, like a piano or a paintbrush.

In that moment though, Virgil wished he knew nothing about explosions. He wished he didn't know that there wasn't a single chance in hell that the one whose aftermath he was staring at now was survivable. But he did. And not even the most desperate denial in the world could shield him from that brutal reality.

"Oh, God," Virgil whispered, his arms curling instinctively around his own torso in an utterly useless defensive gesture. "God, _John_." His voice broke on the name.

Virgil was a man of action; he tackled things head-on, powered through problems until they were problems no longer. He was rarely daunted by seemingly impossible circumstances, just took them as a personal challenge. It made him an optimist, an idealist; traits that were able to persist because the faith he had in himself, and more importantly, in his family, had never been misplaced. Those instincts were telling him now not to give up, that John was brilliant and resourceful and not to be underestimated.

But this time, his brain knew better.

While he sat frozen in his seat though, Alan did the opposite. He was a flurry of frantic movement, donning his EVA equipment and grabbing the emergency medical kit and scrambling for the airlock that would take him out into that desolate sea of twisted metal.

It was the sound of that airlock decompressing to allow his little brother to leave the safety of Thunderbird 3 that finally jolted Virgil out of his horrified stupor.

"Alan!" Virgil's entire world was on the verge of shuddering to pieces, but his concern for Alan ran deep. He grabbed his helmet and activated his personal comms. "Alan, get back here! He wouldn't want you to see-"

But his words failed him there, because the next ones had to be _his body_.

"Just come back!" he tried again, but it didn't matter. Alan wasn't listening, just speeding towards the main wreck on his hoverboard, the sounds of his rapid, panicked breathing echoing over the comms.

Virgil's heart contorted inside him, and he had to bite his lip hard as he fumbled at his restraints, freeing himself from the copilot seat and struggling towards the airlock. He'd always been the worst of the five of them at EVAs, feeling gangly and uncoordinated without the grounding stability of gravity, but that couldn't matter now.

 _"Virgil?"_

Virgil's throat constricted at the sound of Scott's voice. It was small, scared and horrified and resigned, but there was still just the tiniest thread of hope running through it. Like it wasn't computing, what had happened to his little brother.

 _"Virgil, what's happening?_ "

"I'm going after Alan," Virgil reported as he locked a helmet into place over the spacesuit he was wearing and listened for the telltale hiss of pressurization that meant he'd made a solid connection. "He can't- I can't let him do this alone."

 _"Oh."_ Scott's voice sounded smaller than Virgil had ever heard it. There was a pause. _"Isn't…Virgil isn't there anything you can…?"_

"I've got to go after Alan," Virgil said. It was all he could offer.

Virgil may not have had a custom hoverboard like Alan did, but he'd trained on the jetpacks they kept stocked on Thunderbird 3. He strapped himself into one with reckless haste, activating the airlock before he even had it on all the way. He sent himself rocketing after Alan's shrinking figure, calling out to him again as he went.

Alan ignored him, but Virgil caught up to him just outside of the biggest piece of wreckage, the hollowed-out skeleton of what had once been the main body of the satellite. He caught Alan by the shoulders and engaged his reverse thrusters, dragging them both to an ungainly halt.

"Alan, wait!"

"Get _off_ me, Virgil!" Alan snarled, so fiercely that Virgil almost did as he asked out of sheer surprise, but then he just adjusted his grip, wrapping an arm securely around his brother's chest.

"Together, Alan!" he called, and his voice didn't crack this time but it was a near thing. "I'm not trying to stop you; I'm telling you that we're doing this _together_."

It wasn't good enough - God, John would give him absolute _hell_ for letting Alan in at all - but Virgil simply didn't have it in him to stop him. And more than that, he didn't have the strength to go in alone.

Alan stopped struggling in his arms, but he'd started shuddering, silent and uncontrollable, and that was almost worse. The cold comfort of his denial was clearly crumbling fast, and he wasn't prepared for what came after it. How could he be? Virgil sure as hell wasn't.

Virgil adjusted his grip on him until they were side by side, his arms around Alan's thin shoulders.

"Come on," he said softly, and they lurched forward as Alan triggered the thrusters on his hoverboard.

Virgil had never quite been able to get used to the silence of space. It had always felt ominous and foreboding somehow, lonely and uncaring. But never had it felt _this_ quiet, like the universe itself was holding its breath.

Virgil kept himself slightly in front of Alan as they began to search the wreck, needing to be some semblance of a buffer for him, to pretend that he still had a chance of shielding him. His heart clenched and his stomach dropped with each new compartment or crevice they came across, both hoping to find John and dreading it more than anything. And maybe some tiny, desperate, part of him was expecting John to poke his head around the next corner, to give his brothers a mildly disgruntled look and start complaining about everyone who wasn't Brains being a shoddy engineer.

But the longer they searched, the more it became clear that there was nothing at all to find. The satellite simply hadn't been that big, and it didn't take long to check all of the places big enough to hold a body. One that was intact, at least.

"EOS, can you hear me?" Virgil asked.

A quiet, pitched humming filled his ears, piercing his skull and setting his teeth on edge. There were no words in it, but it _felt_ like despair somehow, and Virgil realized that the AI was in distress too. But at least it - she; John had always referred to her as a she - could hear him.

"EOS, can you scan the wreckage?" The humming stopped, but no words replaced it. Virgil could almost feel the sullen suspicion radiating through the connection. "Please, I don't see him, EOS. I can't _find_ him. Even after an explosion like this, there should be- there should be _something_."

He had to swallow down bile at the thought of just what that something might be. He didn't know if he had it in him to collect the charred, scattered hunks of flesh that had once been his brother. But he did know he didn't have it in him to leave John behind.

"I need your help. _John_ needs your help, one…one last time."

There was another moment of silence, but then a thin voice reached him.

 _"Scanning."_

Virgil didn't distract her with a thank-you, just waited. He closed his eyes against the devastation around him, let the silence of space wash over him for a moment. He still didn't find peace in it the way John had always seemed to.

 _"I'm not detecting appreciable amounts of organic material."_

Virgil's eyes snapped open at the sound of EOS' voice. Some of the grief was gone, having been replaced by surprise and frustration.

"What do you mean?" he asked the AI.

 _"I read you and Alan. Nothing else in that debris field contains organic material."_

Virgil's heart pounded loudly in his ears, even as his brain was struggling to catch up.

"But that's- that's not-" He shook his head.

"Does that mean he could've been thrown clear?" The hope in Alan's voice was almost too much, and Virgil had to swallow hard. "Maybe his comms got damaged, and we just aren't picking up his signal!"

 _"Virgil?"_ The hope was just as strong in Scott's voice, and twice as desperate. _"Is that possible? Could John still be…?"_

"It's possible he got thrown clear," Virgil admitted, his throat aching as he watched Alan's face light up. "But this place is a _mess_. The explosion that did this-"

"Could've been survivable," Alan cut in, stubbornness overtaking his features.

"Alan-"

"It _could have_ , Virgil! You know how carefully Brains designs everything; he made John's spacesuit as close to indestructible as humanly possible. Didn't you, Brains?"

Virgil had tuned out the sounds of Brains' arrival while he and Alan were searching, unable to listen to Scott breaking the news. But he focused on the scientist now.

 _"T-t-technically, yes,"_ Brains said. _"After the incident with EOS, I m-modified his suits to withstand extreme pressures. B-but that's not the same as-"_

But it didn't matter what the rest of that sentence was, what qualification had been about to follow, because Alan wasn't listening anymore. He just snagged Virgil by the arm and started rocketing through the debris, back out into emptier space. Virgil's stomach roiled as he bumped along behind his brother, his body twisting weightlessly as Alan towed him toward Thunderbird 3 at full speed.

"Alan-"

"He's still out here, Virg!" Alan cried. "We just have to find him!"

Virgil knew he should put a stop to this, should force Alan to start accepting reality now so that it wouldn't hurt even worse later. But he couldn't help it; hope of his own was starting to flare. It was born of desperate denial, of the incomprehensibility of living in a world without John, and it refused to be curtailed by the cold voice of reason.

So he said nothing as they boarded Thunderbird 3, just strapped himself into his seat and made sure that Alan did the same before taking them shooting off on their last desperate attempt at the most important rescue of their lives.


	2. The Torments of Man

"Alan."

Alan didn't want to hear the gentleness in Virgil's voice. And he _really_ didn't want to hear the brokenness that lurked beneath it. He ignored his brother, adjusting one of Thunderbird 3's sensor settings and then fixing his eyes firmly on the space visible through the viewport.

He and Virgil had been searching fruitlessly for what felt like an eternity and no time at all. Alan's eyes were aching from staring so hard at the space that stretched out infinitely before them, scanning it with dogged determination. As if at any moment, he expected a familiar blue-suited figure to drift into view, despite the lack of a single blip on his sensor array.

"Alan, he's out of air. Even if he did survive the explosion, he couldn't survive that."

But he _had_ , once. Because Alan had _been_ there, had found him and pulled him to safety and gotten him breathing again.

"If we can just get to him-"

"It's been four hours, Alan. He had one. Max."

Everything in Alan rebelled against the words. His mind was racing, spinning through scenario after scenario, the rapidly dwindling number of ways John could still be alive. They were limited, sure, but there were still some left, a few miracles that John could've pulled off.

Which he _had_. He had. This was _John_. Brilliant, clever John, the most careful of all of them. He'd figured a way out of the impossible situation, because that was what he did.

Alan had been seven years old when John joined NASA. He'd thought it was the coolest thing in the world, that his big brother was going to have a chance of going up there in space, like Dad had in all his stories. He'd told all his friends in school about it, probably more than any of them really wanted to hear.

Then he'd watched _Lost to the Stars: 75 Years of Spaceflight Disasters_. It had been an accident, something he'd never been meant to see, but Alan had always been a precocious child, and Virgil had forgotten about the constant vigilance one had to exercise when living with small children. He'd been home for spring break, watching the documentary on the projector in the living room. He hadn't seen Alan in the doorway, watching with wide, horrified eyes as tragedy after tragedy was recounted in high definition. Astronauts burning up in their ships before they even left the ground, rockets exploding on their way to orbit, meteoroids slamming into space stations…all of the horrifying realities that no one had told Alan about when John signed up.

He'd been inconsolable, sure that his brother was doomed to a similar fate. Virgil, Dad, Scott, even Gordon, who was still a kid himself, had all tried to reassure him, to tell him that it was safer now, that NASA wouldn't let anything happen to John. But he hadn't believed them, and he'd been furious with them for letting John join at all. He'd demanded to be taken to the space center in Houston where John was being trained, to talk him out of his madness. His family had been sympathetic, but his father refused to gate-crash NASA and embarrass John in order to assuage a second grader's irrational panic.

But the next morning, John had been there. He must have gotten special clearance and flown through the night to do it, but he was there, waking Alan with tickling fingers and a fond smile. Alan had latched onto him at once and declared that he wasn't letting go until John promised him that he'd stay firmly on the ground. And instead of getting annoyed by his antics, John had just held him close until he calmed down. Then he'd taken Alan back out to the living room for another movie, not a documentary this time but still the retelling of a true story.

Alan had watched in horror as the _Apollo 13_ was crippled in space, its astronauts apparently doomed. He'd clung even tighter to John, who just told him to wait, to watch and see. And sure enough, in an astonishing feat of bravery, ingenuity, and dedicated teamwork, all three men survived to make it home.

 _You see, Alan?_ John had said to him. _It can be dangerous out there, yes. But even when things go wrong, it can still be okay, when you've got someone watching out for you. And I'll always have that, okay? There'll be NASA, of course, but I'll also have something only one other astronaut has ever had before. You know what that is?_

Alan had shook his head, wide-eyed.

 _I'll have the Tracy family. You trust Dad, right? You know he'll always protect you if something bad happens, like when he came and got you when that tornado was coming for your school._

This time, Alan had nodded. Of course he trusted Dad, who was all but a superhero in his eyes.

 _Well, Dad would do the same for me. He'd come right up to space and get me if he thought I was in trouble, and he wouldn't let anything or anyone get in his way. And Scott would do the same, and Virgil-_

 _And me!_ Alan had declared. _I'll always watch out for you, Johnny!_

John had smiled then, and ruffled Alan's hair.

 _Then how could anything bad ever happen to me?_

Alan had kept his childhood promise, _always_. And now Virgil wanted him to break it.

"How can you just give up on him?" Alan yelled, furious and betrayed. "He's our _brother_ and he _needs us_ , how can you just-?"

But the words died a choked death in his throat as he twisted around in his seat to actually look at Virgil. He was clinging to his restraints with a white-knuckled grip that wasn't quite enough to hide the fact that his hands were shaking. His eyes were dry but wide and lost, his features twisted in agony, soul-deep and inescapable.

"Oh," Alan gasped aloud, small and quiet, and just like that, the realization slammed into him with brutal, devastating force.

They weren't going to find John alive.

* * *

 _Hope is the worst of all evils,_ Nietzsche once said _, because it prolongs the torments of man._

Virgil had never agreed with the German philosopher on that score. He'd always believed hope to be precious, and he prided himself in being someone who returned it to people.

But now, for the first time, he thought he understood what Nietzsche had meant. Because despite his best efforts and his own practicality, hope had somehow managed to sink its hooks into him. He'd let himself get swept along by Alan's desperate denial, and now they were both paying for it.

Virgil couldn't have said exactly when he gave up. Maybe it was after their second sweep of the entire debris field failed to yield so much as a hint of John. Maybe it was when EOS spoke directly into his personal comm to tell him that John's chances of survival had officially reached zero. Maybe it was when they came across one of the wings of John's exo-pod, crumpled and torn like rice paper instead of a specially designed metal alloy, drifting without any sign of its pilot. Alan hadn't wanted to grasp the implications of that one, but Virgil hadn't been able to summon the same protective ignorance, and another cruel barb of empty hope had been ripped away, gutting him that much further.

Even in spite of all that, though, Virgil had wanted to stay up there, to search every inch of the heavens until they found what was left of John. But he was with Alan, and he hadn't been able to bear watching him cling desperately to that devastating hope of his own. So he'd chosen to care for the brother he still had a chance of helping, and that meant returning home.

But it didn't mean his heart didn't feel like it was being torn in half as they reentered the atmosphere, Thunderbird 3 shuddering around them as if the ship itself was protesting against leaving John behind. Gravity reasserted itself, but Virgil still felt like he was drifting.

He did his best to focus on Alan, whose face was drawn and pale as he piloted them carefully back to Tracy Island, settling his rocket down in its silo. Virgil had always been good about knowing what to say, or not to say, when his brothers needed him, the one they could always turn to for comfort or support. He was at a loss now though. Maybe he always would be.

So he let Alan work through an abridged version of his usual post-flight checks in silence, hoping the routine would keep him steady. But the bright sheen in Alan's eyes only grew more pronounced, his lower lip starting to tremble. He'd been growing up so fast, more than pulling his weight with International Rescue, that it could sometimes be too easy to forget how young he still was. But not just then.

Virgil wanted to reach out to him, but he suspected that what Alan needed most was to be off of Thunderbird 3, away from the reminders of the last few horrific hours. So he put a hand on Alan's shoulder and steered him towards the exit, out onto the loading ramp that had extended to meet them.

His gut lurched when he spotted the figures waiting for them. This was only going to keep getting harder, wasn't it?

Grandma Tracy opened her arms, and Alan ran to her at once, not bothering to attempt a casual front. She folded him into an embrace, rubbing a hand up and down his back. They could all hear the quick, desperate gasps of his breaths, and each one struck Virgil in the chest like an icy knife.

But more of his attention was focused on Scott, standing silently beside their grandmother. He met Scott's eyes, and had to fight not to flinch away from what he saw there.

A wave of guilt slammed into him, washing away that much more of his numbness and shock. He and Scott were two of the big brothers, supposed to look out for their family. And Virgil had failed in a way too big to comprehend.

"I'm sorry, Scott-"

Scott just shook his head and strode forward to yank Virgil into a tight hug.

"It's not your fault," he murmured fiercely. "Never think that, you understand me?"

That was easy for him to say. He hadn't been the one mere minutes away from being close enough to help. He hadn't been the one who was _relieved_ to hear that John would be running the rescue solo.

Virgil's throat tightened painfully, and his vision blurred. He squeezed his eyes shut, not ready to fall apart yet, not when the rest of his family needed strength. He fisted his hands tightly in the back of Scott's shirt, struggling to hold himself together.

"It's nobody's fault," said Grandma Tracy. Virgil opened his eyes to see her looking at them both over Alan's spiky hair. "You boys did everything you could, and John would tell you the same thing."

Virgil wanted to believe her.

He took a deep breath and let go of Scott.

"Where's Brains?" he asked.

"He's talking to EOS, trying to figure out what…what happened."

Virgil was sorry he'd asked. He wasn't ready to think about that yet, to analyze and review and second-guess. He still couldn't process the fact that John was just _gone_ , and he didn't care about the why of it just then.

Time had felt unreal since the moment EOS told them about the explosion, so Virgil didn't know how long they spent on that platform. But somehow they all ended up back in the main room, because it seemed the thing to do. Get back from a rescue, go to the lounge. Except it hadn't been a rescue. It hadn't even been a recovery.

Virgil found himself staring at John's portrait on the wall. It was incomprehensible to him that his brother would never appear in the air before it again, to dispatch them for a mission or check in on them after one or just to say hi.

Suddenly, there was a familiar electronic beep, a glowing IR symbol flashing to life in the air over the central holoprojector. Virgil's heart leaped wildly, automatically.

"John?" Alan said at once, his ashen face lighting up.

 _"Tracy Island, this is Thunderbird Shadow, on final approach with FAB-1."_

Yeah. Maybe Nietzsche had known what he was talking about.

"We forgot about Gordon," Virgil realized in a hollow whisper, speaking for all of them. Gordon, Kayo, Lady Penelope… "How the hell did we forget?"

No one had an answer for him. They all stared at the luminous IR symbol, evidence of the active connection to the rest of their family. None of them had the first idea how to respond to the hail.

Grandma Tracy turned out the be the steadiest of them.

"F.A.B. Thunderbird Shadow," she called, and Virgil could hear the slight tremor in her voice, but you had to be listening for it. "We'll be waiting for you."

The connection vanished, and a heavy, smothering silence descended over the room. Dread was curdling in Virgil's stomach. He'd already watched one little brother go through the horror that was coming, and he didn't know how he was supposed to stand watching Gordon endure it too.

But life simply didn't care whether or not you were ready for something. It just threw the punches, and either you remained standing, or you didn't.

Too soon, the sound of a familiar voice reached them.

"I don't know how Parker does it," Gordon was saying. His dramatic, yet cheerful tone was like a bucket of ice water dumped directly onto Virgil's heart.

He staggered theatrically into the main room, laden down with shopping bags in varying shades of pink.

"You guys would not _believe-_ " he began, but he broke off abruptly.

Gordon had never been the most sensitive of the Tracy clan, but he didn't have to be to pick up on the atmosphere in the room just then. His amber eyes darted from face to face, his animated expression quickly morphing into one of alarm.

"What's wrong?" he asked. No one could answer him. "Was there a mission failure?"

Numb, ringing silence filled the room. Slowly, the bags slipped out of Gordon's hands.

"Guys?"

Grandma Tracy was once again the first to recover. She stepped forward, brushing a gentle hand over Scott's arm as she passed, and took Gordon's face in her hands. She pressed a kiss to his forehead, studied him for just a moment, and then let him go again. She took Kayo and Lady Penelope by the shoulders.

"Come on," she said quietly. "The boys need a moment, and I…I have something to tell you."

She led them away. Gordon watched them leaving with utter consternation, and then turned to his brothers for answers.

In the silence, Scott took a step forward, squaring his shoulders. It didn't feel right, to let him shoulder this burden alone, but Virgil _couldn't_. He couldn't say the words that would make it real, couldn't be the one to bring Gordon's world crashing down around him like the rest of theirs already had.

"Gordon." Scott took another step towards their brother, who took an instinctive step back, as if he knew what was coming and could protect himself from it. But Scott closed the distance between them anyway, put his hands on Gordon's shoulders. He took a breath. "Gordon, there was an accident, up in space. A meteor hit a manned satellite…John was closest, and he tried to take care of it, but there was- there was an explosion."

There was a beat of silence.

"So…he's hurt?" Gordon asked.

Alan's legs folded beneath him, and he sank to the floor without a sound, burying his face in his hands. Virgil went to him at once, kneeling beside him and pulling him close. But he knew it was a fruitless gesture. Only one Tracy would have been able to comfort Alan just then, and he wasn't available. Gordon shot them both a wide-eyed glance, before returning his bewildered focus to Scott.

"Gordon." Scott's voice was barely audible; a strangled, broken whisper. "He's dead."

Gordon flinched so hard he broke Scott's grip on his shoulders. But then he shook his head.

"No, he's not," he said with an air of relief. "Is that all this is? Don't worry, there's just been some kind of miscommunication. I just talked to John a few hours ago; he's fine. He's fine, guys."

He looked at Virgil and Alan, as if searching for backup. Virgil had his arms curled around his little brother's narrow shoulders, and he could feel Alan shaking apart in his grasp. He wasn't crying, just trembling silently, like a sapling in a hurricane. Virgil met Gordon's eyes. The two of them were a little too good at communicating without words though, and Gordon looked quickly away from him.

"Okay, seriously," he said to Scott, forcing a smile. "Is this his way of getting back at me for sending up a tofu burger instead of his cheeseburger on the last supply shipment to Five? Because if so, he could really use a lesson in proportional response. I didn't think his sense of humor was _this_ bad."

"Gordon…" Scott seemed unable to continue, but he didn't have to. The look on his face was positively heartbreaking, and he'd never been much of an actor. Not even Gordon could pretend that it wasn't real.

Several agonizing seconds ticked by, the forced relief fading from Gordon's expression. His look turned imploring as he stared at Scott.

"No," he said, swallowing. He shook his head, hard. "No, no, c'mon. Not- not _John_. He's…he's supposed to be the safe one. He's not supposed to-"

He looked at Virgil again, and whatever he saw in his face made the last of his denial evaporate, leaving behind something far worse. And in the space between one blink and the next, the last Tracy shattered.

* * *

The first thing he knew was the shaking. Each of his muscles seemed to have a mind of its own, spasming violently, independent of the others. It was as if his own body was trying to tear itself apart from the inside.

A whimper tore from his lips and he tried to hunch in on himself, white flashes exploding in his otherwise empty vision. He didn't understand, didn't know what was happening to him. He was six years old again, lost in the dark and cold.

"Hey, easy, Johnny. Easy; you're all right. Just breathe. I've got you."

Something in John eased automatically at the voice, his muddled, panicked brain registering it as one of familiarity and safety. Strong arms were circling him, and instinct had him curling into the solid warmth of a broad chest. His body continued to shake, and a large hand rubbed up and down his back.

He pressed his face against something soft, involuntary tears squeezing past his tightly shut eyelids as the painful muscle spasms continued to work their way through him.

 _What's happening what's happening what's happening…_

Nausea tore at his gut, and he choked, the deeply ingrained instinct not to vomit kicking in. His efforts at control took all of his focus for a long moment, but John Tracy's brain had never been one to stay offline for long. As consciousness returned in earnest, it began to race, to process the situation, working from last known data and his current limited input.

He froze. He knew the voice still talking to him, knew the scent clinging to the shirt pressed against his cheek, knew the arms holding him protectively. And he shouldn't have.

He finally dragged his eyes open, flinching from the harsh white light that assaulted him at once, stabbing into his tender head. He forced his eyes to remain open as they watered, focusing on the familiar, concerned face looming over him.

"…Dad?"


	3. Greatest Weakness

_**A/N:**_ _Sorry about the wait for this. Real life and writer's block tag-teamed me. Thank you to everyone who has left reviews - you keep me writing!_

 _The events of this chapter take place a few hours before John wakes up._

* * *

It was one of the longest evenings of Scott Tracy's life. And he'd had some real contenders in the past.

He'd thought he'd known loss. His mother died when he was sixteen years old, and the pain had been like nothing he could've imagined. But he'd gotten through it, had grown strong enough calluses over wounds that would always be there. He'd helped his father turn her death into an inspiration, had participated wholeheartedly in the foundation of International Rescue. But then he'd lost his father too, and he'd thought it might kill him, then.

So yes, Scott knew loss. But it hadn't prepared him for _this_.

He still couldn't quite fathom it, the hole that had been so abruptly ripped in his life. He still hadn't figured out how to breathe under the weight of the horror and guilt and pain that were crushing him. And part of him, the part that had done this before, that thought it was an old expert, knew that it was only going to get worse as his shock wore off and reality truly began to sink in.

No one seemed to know quite what to do. It had been hours since Gordon had gotten back, but they were all still gathered in the main room. It was as if when they moved, they would be moving _on_ , making the admission that they were no longer waiting for something to happen, for the comm to hum to life again and really be John calling this time, brushing off another near miss for International Rescue.

So they just sat there, none of them looking at any of the others, none of them saying a word. Grandma had rejoined them at some point with Kayo and Lady Penelope, but none of them had much to say either. The normally composed Lady Penelope had silent tears carving tracks through her makeup, and she'd let Gordon fold her in an embrace, burying her face in his shoulder. Kayo's expression was utterly blank, and she'd sat next to Scott without even being able to look at him.

It was Sherbet who finally broke the silence. The little pug had been fairly still and quiet, apparently picking up on the solemn mood of his owner. But he was still a dog, and as the sun began to sink towards the horizon, bathing them all in golden light, he started to whine, pawing at Lady Penelope's leg.

"I can take him outside," Gordon offered, his voice dull and hollow.

He stood, but Lady Penelope shook her head.

"I should really be taking him home," she said, standing as well. "There's not really anything I can do here, is there? Besides, you should all be getting some rest."

She said it like she knew it was improbable. She had a guest room on the island, but Scott didn't blame her for not wanting to stick around just then. Kayo offered to fly her home and stay with her until Parker returned. Before she left though, she looked around at what was left of the Tracy family.

"I…I am so very, very sorry," she said, her red-rimmed eyes traveling over each pale face. "John will be dearly missed."

She left with the promise that she would be there for anything they needed. Gordon went to see her and Kayo off, and Virgil put an arm around Alan's shoulders, guiding him gently in the direction of his room. Finally, only Scott and Grandma Tracy remained. Scott felt like the air itself was trying to suffocate him.

"We'll get through this, kiddo," Grandma said gently.

"I don't _want_ to get through it." The words were petulant and childish, he knew, but he couldn't help it. Scott didn't want to consider a future where he'd developed another flimsy callus over the gaping chasm left behind by the death of another family member. "I want my little brother back."

"I know." Grandma's voice was thin and tired.

Scott's heart ached to look at her. She'd stayed strong through so much, through the loss of her husband, and then her son, and now her grandson. But how much could one person really be expected to take?

She stood slowly, and for the first time Scott could remember, she actually looked her age. She looked down at Scott, opening her mouth as if to say something. He waited, desperate for some of the wise words that she always seemed able to dispense in the hardest of times. But then she just shook her head, her eyes gleaming and her lip trembling. She put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed it gently, and then turned away.

Scott watched her go, feeling as if he'd been set adrift. And yet he was still unable to move. It still felt like giving up, like betraying John. And he just…couldn't.

He stood and crossed the ring of couches, dropping into the chair that would send him to Thunderbird 3. He reached under the seat for the manual trigger, and soon he was sinking through the floor. He felt none of the usual thrill of being dispatched, none of the eager excitement that came from knowing he was on his way to save lives. Instead, his stomach was heavy with dread as he went through the motions of the loading sequence.

He shivered slightly as he stepped aboard Thunderbird 3. Then he froze.

Virgil was standing beside the pilot's seat, his arms crossed. His dark eyes were shadowed and exhausted as they fixed on Scott, and they saw far, far too much. But Scott forced himself to meet them.

"I can't leave him alone up there, Virgil," he said, bracing himself to ward off a lecture. "I _can't_."

Virgil's expression wavered dangerously for just an instant, before he took a deep breath and regained control.

"I know," he said, his voice only a little thicker than usual. "That's why I'm coming with you."

Scott's automatic instinct was to protest, to insist that this responsibility was his alone. Virgil had already been through the hell of searching for John's body, and Scott didn't want to subject him to that again. But then he remembered the guilt in Virgil's eyes when he'd guided Alan off of Thunderbird 3 earlier. He remembered the lack of closure they were all still feeling after countless hours of searching had failed to yield their father's remains. He remembered the bond that Virgil and John had shared since birth, deep and unshakeable.

It would be crueler to try to stop Virgil from bringing his brother home.

"Suit up," Scott said finally. "We launch in five."

Virgil nodded tightly and retreated to the compartment of the rocket that held spare suits for the boys and any unexpected passengers. While he was changing, Scott settled into the pilot's seat and began the usual startup sequence. Despite having been put back in less than standard conditions, Thunderbird 3 was as ready for launch as she always was.

A minute later, Virgil returned, this time wearing a standard blue spacesuit. He strapped himself into the copilot's seat, and Scott could feel his eyes on him. He glanced up to meet Virgil's unreadable gaze, raising an eyebrow in question.

"Alan's gonna be furious with us."

Scott looked away again. He focused on the controls for a moment.

"Alan can't handle this," he said.

"Can _we_?"

Scott clenched his jaw, blinking rapidly.

 _Why us?_ he couldn't help thinking plaintively. _Why is it our family that has to suffer tragedy after tragedy when all we do is try to help people? Why are we the ones who have to handle so damn much?_

"Better us than him," he said finally, because that would always be true. Just like it should've been true this time. Scott would've given anything, _anything_ to have been in John's place.

Virgil said nothing, just flipped the switch that would make Thunderbird 3's silo open for them, giving them access to the heavens. He stayed silent as Scott worked the controls, and soon the rocket was shuddering around them, pressing them back in their seats as it carried them upward. They left Tracy Island behind in a cloud of exhaust, shooting up through the thinning atmosphere until they were clear of it entirely.

Scott had entered in the coordinates of the satellite's last location, but he still kept his hands on the controls as they flew. He wished the trip were more difficult, to give him something to focus on besides the purpose of this mission. But it was an easy route, and Scott's thoughts were drawn inescapably back to his brother.

John had always been so happy up here. Scott used to worry about him, drifting alone in space. He hadn't been able to understand how it was that he could spend so little time around people and still be content. He'd worried that John had just been taking one for the team, isolating himself so that his brothers didn't have to.

But when he'd brought up his concerns with his father, Jeff had just smiled.

 _He's not wired like you, Scotty,_ he'd said. _The way you feel when you're with people, that's how he feels when he's alone. And he still gets to be with people, really, it's just on his terms._

And he had. For all that he was perpetually over a hundred miles away, John had been in closer contact than ever with his family since taking his place up on Thunderbird 5. He'd always seemed to have some kind of sixth sense about knowing when to call, even if it was to say nothing at all.

In the early days after their father's death, John had sat up with Scott through some of the sleepless nights. He'd never been one for mindless chatter, but on those nights he'd talked and talked and talked, about everything and nothing, telling Scott stories about his time in NASA, about that time he and Virgil had broken Scott's favorite model rocket during a game of hide and seek and blamed it on a baby Gordon, about different fan conspiracy theories for the upcoming Star Trek 100th anniversary special. Anything it took to keep the deafening, terrifying silence at bay in the dark.

He hadn't judged, hadn't tried to fix anything, had just refused to let Scott be alone. He'd kept him from shutting down, falling apart. Even once he'd returned to Five and the boys had found their new normal, he'd remained a confidante, a lifeline.

Thinking about it now, Scott realized he'd never told John that, how much those vigils had meant to him. He'd never thanked him.

Swallowing hard, Scott looked out at the cold silence around them. Maybe that was what John loved so much out here. Maybe it brought him the peace he brought everyone else.

 _Had_ loved. Past tense.

Suddenly, Scott couldn't handle the silence.

"I remember when you were born," he said softly, not taking his eyes from the stars.

"Hmm?" He'd apparently startled Virgil out of thoughts of his own.

"The night you were born." Scott wasn't quite sure where the words were coming from, just that he needed to say them. "I wasn't allowed into the delivery room with Mom and Dad, but Grandma was sitting with me right outside. We knew the moment you arrived, because you started _screaming_ …"

Scott smiled faintly. "I remember trying to run in to check on you. Mom and Dad had been telling me for months how important my job as your big brother was gonna be, and I took them seriously. I think I thought the nurses were torturing you, or something, and I had to save you. But Grandma wouldn't let me go. She said you were fine, Mom and Dad were looking after you, but I didn't believe her. Not with the way you were still wailing like the world was ending. But after a few minutes, you just _stopped_. Just like that, total radio silence. I think I got _more_ worried, then."

"Nice to know your smother hen tendencies kicked in early," Virgil said, but the familiar teasing clearly took effort, and lacked its usual spirit.

"You'd better believe it," Scott sighed. He adjusted one of Thunderbird 3's thrusters, letting a beat of silence go by as he contemplated simpler times. "It was when John was born."

"What?"

"Mom told me later that you stopped crying the moment John was born."

Virgil didn't reply for a moment.

"Oh."

Scott didn't look at him. He thought about the moment a few minutes after, when Grandma had taken him by the hand and brought him to meet his brothers. He remembered the two little bundles tucked in Mom's arms, their tiny faces wrinkly and pink but so peaceful somehow. He remembered being alarmed by how small they were, how fragile, and how he'd been filled by a fierce surge of protectiveness that had never quite gone away.

"She never told me that," Virgil said softly after another long moment.

Scott hummed noncommittally, the memories drawing him deeper. They were less painful than reality.

"You two looked so alike, when you were really little," he said. "Your eyes were the exact same shade of baby blue before they changed, and you both had hair so blond it was almost white. And your smiles…you both had the same big, gummy smile that always made Mom laugh."

Scott smiled to himself at the memory, but it was a tight, painful thing.

"You started talking way before he did though," he went on, because the silence was still unbearable, and the words wouldn't stop now. "I think Dad was actually a little worried about him, but Mom always said he'd talk when he had something to say, and not before. And she was right, like always. Johnny skipped his first word and went straight to his first sentence. It was when-"

"Scott. Please- please stop."

His brother's tone had Scott looking to his left, where Virgil was sitting rigid in his seat, his head tilted back. His eyes were closed, his jaw clenched tight. His breathing was desperately even, but still the track of a tear gleamed on his cheek.

The sight yanked Scott back to cold reality, and his throat closed up as his heart twisted. He couldn't quite imagine what it was like, to be one half of a set of twins that would never be whole again.

"Sorry," he said, and fell silent.

It was less than a minute later that they reached their destination. They both stared out at the debris field that was all that was left of the satellite that had claimed John's life.

"Where'd it go?" Virgil demanded, sitting forward in his seat.

Scott's eyes had been locked on the scattered hunks of metal, his brain presenting him with images of the last violent moments of John's life, but he tore his gaze away to look at Virgil.

"Where'd what go?" he asked.

"You weren't here before, but there was more wreckage. The main body of the satellite was more intact. Alan and I searched the whole thing when we thought- when we thought there was still a chance…"

He clenched his jaw and looked back out at the debris field. His eyes shone too brightly.

"There should be more here," he insisted.

 _"A Stelair ship took the primary wreckage."_

Scott jumped as the artificial voice crackled through the cockpit.

"Eos," he said, straightening. He'd almost forgotten about the AI. He'd been trying to avoid thinking much about Thunderbird 5 at all, fully functioning, orbiting alone and unoccupied waiting for a pilot that would never be returning.

Scott's throat constricted painfully.

"What do you mean, they took it?" Virgil asked when Scott couldn't speak.

 _"The satellite was registered to Stelair Aeronautics,"_ Eos explained. _"They came to retrieve their property."_

"So they just- they just picked up their junk and- and _left_?" Scott sputtered. "They didn't try to get in contact with the people who lost a man trying to save their pilot?"

 _"I attempted to make contact with them, but they ignored my hails,"_ Eos said.

Fury burned in Scott's blood. John had _died_ for that pilot, and the company just brushed it aside like it was nothing?

"But we know John wasn't there," Virgil said, although there was an edge of anger to his voice as well. "We can still find him, Scott."

So they started looking. And looking. And looking.

"There!"

Scott's heart turned over in his chest at the sound of Virgil's exclamation. He squinted in the direction his brother was pointing, and another jolt went through him as he spotted the soot-streaked yellow paint of John's exopod drifting in the distance.

"Alan and I saw a wing before, but that's a bigger piece," Virgil said. "Maybe…"

He didn't have to say anything else. Within seconds, they were approaching the remains of the suit, and hopefully John. Scott extended a claw-tipped arm from Thunderbird 3, carefully grasping the debris and drawing it inside the rocket. As soon as it was secure, Scott and Virgil freed themselves from their seats and made their way back toward the cargo bay.

Scott raised his hand to the control panel that would grant them access, but then he paused. It was hitting him, then, just what he might be about to see. Could he really do this?

He felt Virgil's hand land on his shoulder. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and let them in.

Neither of them said a word as they went to inspect their findings. Scott caught himself holding his breath as they drew closer, hoping and dreading.

It turned out to be the main body of the exopod, surprisingly intact. And totally empty.

Scott stared at the charred metal, a wave of…of _everything_ crashing over him.

"This doesn't make _sense_!" he snarled, slamming his fist into the unforgiving metal floor. "He didn't just _evaporate._ Where is he?"

"Maybe he did, Scott," Virgil said, his voice as soft as Scott's was harsh. "That explosion-"

"You said there should've been something left!"

"I was guessing. Explosions work differently out here; I could've been wrong."

"Well, which is it?" Scott shouted. "Is John still out there, or isn't he?"

Virgil flinched, and another wave of guilt slammed into Scott. He turned away, raising his hands to his face before remembering that he was wearing his helmet.

"Virgil, I-"

"Scott."

He looked down to see Virgil running his fingers over a dark stain on the inside of one of the shoulder greaves. Scott had identified it as soot, but on closer inspection…

Nausea coiled in his stomach, and he squeezed his eyes shut, blocking his view of the carbonized bloodstain. The cold, incontrovertible proof that what had happened to his brother.

Ringing, helpless silence descended. Scott forced his breathing to remain steady as minute ticked by, then another. He wanted so badly to hit something else, to rage and scream, anything to get this _hurt_ out of him, but Virgil was still in the blast radius.

Eventually, there was simply nothing else for it. They had enough fuel to keep searching, but to what end? There was nothing to find.

There was _no one_ to find.

"Virgil," Scott said finally. "He's gone."

* * *

Jeff had learned to hate the sound of his door opening. It was quiet, unassuming, just the soft _snick-hissssss_ of the panel retreating into the wall, but even when he was asleep, he heard it. His body's reaction to it was physical, leaving him tense and aware at the first hint of the sound.

But after almost two years in captivity, he'd learned that there was little point in actually responding to it. Whatever was waiting on the other side of that door would be there no matter what he did, and it had become something of its own defiance to simply ignore it, pretend as though every nerve in his body wasn't stretched painfully tight in anticipation of what was to come.

So that was what he did when the familiar sound jolted him from his sleep. He opened his eyes but simply stared up at the featureless white ceiling, crossing his legs and bracing his hands behind his head.

"I don't suppose you've reconsidered."

Jeff snorted, finally turning his head to offer his captor a disdainful look.

"Really?" he said. "You _really_ think there's still a point in asking me that question? You know what they say about the definition of insanity, right?"

For some reason, this only made Barrett smile. Jeff had frequently been seized by the urge to punch that expression from his face, but he knew better than to try. Barrett never came into this modern cell without activating the invisible force field that separated him from Jeff.

"Indeed I do," he said. "Which is why I've decided to stop hoping for different results from the same methods, and to start changing the methods."

Jeff sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the foam-padded shelf that served as his meager bed. He raised an eyebrow at Barrett.

"Don't you think you've tried everything already?" he asked.

"Oh, hardly. I should've thought of it earlier, of course, but I suppose I'm not used to dealing with men who carry their greatest weaknesses outside of themselves."

Jeff frowned. He didn't know what that meant, and he didn't like not knowing. But he also wasn't about to give Barrett the satisfaction of asking about it.

Barrett stepped further into the room and off to the side, clearing the doorway. Jeff wondered if he'd brought in a new specialist, someone trained in the extraction of information. He wondered how long it would take this one to give up.

But it was just a typical thug who walked into the room, one that Jeff recognized from far too long a time spent in captivity at this godforsaken facility. His jaw was set, the muscles in his neck standing out as he carried something heavy in his arms.

Make that some _one_.

"NO!"

Jeff was on his feet before his brain had even entirely caught up with what he was seeing. He charged the force field blocking him from the door, crashing into it with painful force and rebounding slightly. He just threw himself against the barrier again, slamming a useless fist against it. It was pointless, he knew, would only leave him bruised and stinging. But he didn't care, couldn't care, could barely even think.

Because _John_ was gathered in the guard's arms, his head lolling back and his eyes closed, pale as a corpse and just as still.

"What have you done to him?" Jeff demanded. The hoarse shout was directed at Barrett, but his eyes were fixed on his son, straining for some sign of life.

"Very little, as of now," Barrett said, as calm as Jeff was agitated. "I assure you, he is quite alive. But he proved…difficult, in transit. Measures had to be taken."

A trail of drying blood snaked down from John's nose, and the hand that Jeff could see was scraped and bloody. Whatever had been done to him, he'd fought back.

"Our research suggests that this one is the smartest of your brats," Barrett told Jeff. "Graduated from Harvard at seventeen, recruited by NASA the same year, highly sought after as an independent programmer…it's enough to make any father proud. Of course, then most public record of him vanishes five years ago. 'Taking time off to focus on independent projects,' NASA's press release said. But it wasn't really independent, was it?"

Jeff couldn't concentrate enough to come up with a response. He was still straining against the force field, his gaze locked on John's limp form. He was so _still_.

"Very sweet of you, to run your little rescue operation with your sons," Barrett went on, watching Jeff with sharp, self-satisfied eyes. "They must be very loyal, to have given up their lives for your idealistic dreams."

His tone implied that he didn't think the sacrifice had been voluntary. Jeff finally dragged his eyes away from John to glower at his captor.

"Barrett, if you hurt him-"

"You'll do what, precisely? My money is on giving me what I want, after a while." Barrett smirked and shrugged. "But I suppose we'll find out."

Ice began to creep through Jeff's veins.

 _I'm not used to dealing with men who carry their greatest weaknesses outside of themselves._ The implications of those words were finally starting to sink in.

"Barrett." Jeff did his best to adopt a different tone, his mouth suddenly dry. "Mr. Barrett, please. He's done nothing to you. Let this stay between us, you can do whatever you want to me."

"As you so astutely pointed out, doing whatever I want to you has failed to yield results," Barrett said. "But I assure you, I'm not doing this to you and your family for the hell of it. Nothing more has to happen to John, not a single thing. So long as you're prepared to give me what I've been asking for so patiently."

He made it sound so simple. And it was, really, just not in the way Barrett hoped. Jeff shot a tortured glance at John, but he kept silent.

"That's what I thought."

At a nod from Barrett, the guard dumped John unceremoniously on the ground. Jeff flinched as he watched his son's head crack against the polished floor, but John didn't so much as twitch.

"I'll give you some time to get reacquainted," Barrett said as he retreated towards the door. "Just remember, you have four more of these. Don't make the mistake of thinking this one is indispensable for my purposes. It would be a shame for the world to lose a mind like John's, but that's a sacrifice I'm willing to make if you refuse to see reason."

He left, the door sliding shut behind him. Jeff just pressed himself closer to the force field, and the instant it was no longer there, he was running across the cell and dropping to his knees. He reached out with urgent hands and pressed his fingers to the junction of John's jaw and throat. He only really started _breathing_ again when the steady rhythm of a pulse met his touch.

Slower now, he moved his hands to John's face, carefully assessing for damage. There was a dusky bruise darkening under one eye and across his cheek, but nothing appeared broken. Jeff peeled back an eyelid to see a sluggish, dilated pupil. Drugged.

Jeff held himself perfectly still for a moment, struggling for control. The wrath that was choking him now wouldn't help John.

It took a long internal count to ten before he was sure of himself. He did a cursory manual scan of the rest of his son's body, checking for any other damage. There was a shallow gash over his collarbone, but it had already stopped bleeding. Finding no other obvious injuries, Jeff slid one arm below John's knees and the other behind his shoulders, before staggering to his feet with a grunt of effort. He carried John across the cell to deposit him on the padded bench. There was no telling when he would wake up, but at least it wouldn't be on the floor.

Because that would make everything all right.

Jeff sank down onto the bench beside his motionless son, dropping his head into his hands. As his adrenaline faded, the true horror of the situation was settling in, gripping him tight.

Over his time in captivity, one of the only things that had kept Jeff going through some days was the knowledge that his torments were his alone. He'd clung desperately to the knowledge that his family was far away from this personal hell, safe and together on their island sanctuary. But now John was here, and Jeff's worst nightmares were coming true.

 _You have four more of these,_ Barrett had taunted. The threat to Jeff's other children had been clear, but what exactly did that mean? Had he- God, had he already captured the rest of them?

Jeff swallowed back a wave of nausea at the thought. But surely it was impossible. He'd trained his boys to be careful, had given them the best security he could manage. And yet…if Barrett had gotten his hands on _John_ , protected in the haven of Thunderbird 5, were the rest of his sons as safe as he'd thought?

The possibilities tormented Jeff, but there was nothing he could do about them now. He forced himself to take a deep breath, to adopt the state of deliberate calm that had gotten him through many a harrowing situation. He dropped his hands and looked back down at John. He was burning with questions, but there would be no answers yet. All he could do was be there for the son that was accounted for, so that was what he intended to do.

John had never much liked to be touched, but the exception had always been when he was sick or scared. Jeff still remembered nights when he and Lucy had been woken by a tiny form wriggling between them, sweaty with fever or eyes wide from a nightmare. Lucy had always treasured the chance to cuddle John, but on the nights when she was working a late shift at the hospital, it fell to Jeff to comfort his quietest son.

He'd bought a special projector to keep on his bedside table, and on the bad nights he would turn it on, so that a galaxy's worth of stars spilled out across the ceiling. He'd let John lie on his chest, both of them peering up at the recreated heavens. He'd pointed out each of the constellations to the little boy, told him the stories that went with them, making up some of his own along the way, until John inevitably relaxed into a more peaceful sleep.

It had been a long time since those childhood nights, but in this case, Jeff thought the old rules would still apply. He'd been on the receiving end of a few of Barrett's drugs. Even if John wasn't alarmed by waking up in a new place after God knew what had been done to him, he was still going to feel like absolute crap.

Jeff repositioned them so that his back was against the wall and John's torso was in his lap. He used the edge of his worn grey t-shirt to gently wipe the tacky blood from beneath his son's nose, wishing there was more he could do, wishing their problems were still the kind that could be fixed by projected stars and whispered stories.

"I'm here, John," he murmured. The words felt weak, useless in the face of the horror that no doubt awaited, but they were all he had to offer. "I'm here."

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Jeff Tracy isn't dead. Fight me._

 _Also, one of my favorite headcanons is that John and Virgil are twins, so that's just something we're all gonna have to deal with._


	4. Scheherazade

_**A/N:** Thank you again to everyone who has left reviews. This is such a lovely fandom to write for. Also, there was some weirdness when I tried to post this chapter the first time, so I'm reposting it. Sorry if you've already read it. I'll do my best to get the next one posted soon :)_

 _Since it's no longer the 1960's, I've based my interpretation of Jeff and the way he interacts with his kids on the version of him we saw in 2004, and on the way they talk about him in TAG._

* * *

Half an hour into Jeff's vigil, John woke. His pain and confusion were obvious and heartbreaking, and all Jeff could do was hold him through it, urge him to keep breathing. He knew the moment John's brain kicked in, because he went utterly still, and then he pulled back slightly to stare up at Jeff with watering, disbelieving eyes.

"Dad?" he said, his voice a little rougher than it should've been.

Jeff's throat tightened, but he managed a small smile.

"Hey there, kiddo," he said, stroking a wayward lock of hair back from John's clammy forehead.

John remained frozen, just staring at his father.

"I'm dead," he whispered finally.

Jeff felt his expression twist as guilt and anger punched him in the chest. Damn Barrett to hell.

"You're not dead," he said, smoothing over his expression and squeezing John's shoulder bracingly. "I can't say for certain, but I'm pretty sure death isn't supposed to feel quite as crappy as you look right now."

John just kept staring up at him. Jeff sighed.

"Look at me, John."

The command was entirely unnecessary. John's wide eyes were already fixed on him, and they didn't appear to be going anywhere. He might even have been holding his breath.

"I didn't die in that crash," Jeff told him. "It was a trap, and they were waiting for me, to take me here. I've been a prisoner all this time, not a casualty."

Jeff could see that lightning-fast mind of John's racing, assessing and analyzing all of the available data, all of the possible interpretations. He watched disbelief, suspicion, confusion, wary hope, more suspicion, flicker one after another through those eyes he'd inherited from his mother.

But finally, inevitably, John appeared to arrive at the only possible conclusion. His breathing hitched, and he raised a hand to touch Jeff's arm, as if making sure he was solid. He bit his lip, the sheen in his eyes finally starting to overflow.

"Dad." It wasn't a question this time.

And then John was sitting up and throwing his arms around Jeff, tucking his face against his father's shoulder and clinging to him tight. Jeff held onto him just as tightly, closing his eyes and pressing his cheek to the top of John's head. His son was warm and solid in his arms, _real_.

God, but he'd missed his children. All of them.

"John, I need you to tell me what happened, all right?" he said, reluctant to disturb the moment, but needing to know. "Were any of your brothers with you when you were taken?"

John stiffened. He let go of Jeff and gave him an alarmed look, apparently struggling to remember.

"No…" he said slowly, frowning in concentration. He rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes. "I was talking to…to Scott, and Virgil. Alan too. But they weren't…" His expression cleared. "They weren't with me. I was running a rescue by myself, a damaged satellite. Thunderbird 3 was on the way, but they hadn't gotten there yet."

Jeff started breathing that much easier, and he sent up a word of thanks that probably went unheard. He redoubled his focus on John.

"Walk me through it, son," he said. "You were running the rescue. Did you dispatch from Thunderbird 5?"

"Yeah." John shook his head as if to clear it. He raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, winced, and lowered it again. "Yeah, I was talking to Gordon, but then the distress signal came through. It seemed normal at first, just an asteroid strike. I was closeby, so I went in the exo-pod."

"The exo-pod?"

"What? Oh, yeah, I guess Brains designed it after…well, when you weren't around." John frowned, but then the hint of a smile touched his face. "It's amazing, Dad. It's like a jetpack but way more sophisticated; it's like having wings. Brains built in these quantum processor chips that make the response time-"

"You'll have to tell me more about it later," Jeff interrupted, pointed.

John took the hint. He cleared his throat.

"Anyway, when I got to the satellite, things started to get weird. I couldn't reestablish contact with the satellite technician. Scott was running control from your workstation, and he said he couldn't pick up any life signs from the satellite, but I was still getting readings from one person. And the external damage didn't look like it was more than cosmetic. So I went inside, and I still couldn't find anyone. But when I went to look at the systems…I knew something wasn't right. The damage to the electronics was almost surgically precise, and only certain systems were affected. It was like someone had done the exact damage I'd be looking for with my scans after an asteroid hit." John frowned. "And I guess that's exactly what did happen."

"Probably," Jeff agreed, doing his best to tamp down on the anger rising in his chest. Barrett may have been evil, but he was clever too, and he would have planned every element of John's capture down to the last detail.

"Anyway, that was when I noticed that the way things had been set up, the satellite was going to blow any second. I should've just gotten out, but I thought…well, I thought maybe…" He shook his head, grimacing. "God, I guess that was pretty stupid."

"You thought someone was still in trouble," Jeff surmised.

"Yeah. All those clues, every sign that screamed TRAP, and I still went blundering in there trying to be a hero."

"You were acting on instinct, and that instinct was to try to save someone." Jeff settled a hand on his son's knee. "If you think I'm anything but proud of you for that, think again."

John blinked, and his eyes started to shine a little brighter than usual again.

"Thanks, Dad," he said softly. He looked away and cleared his throat. "Anyway, I was talking to Scott and Alan and Virgil, trying to tell them what was happening, when I felt this…this _shock_ , I guess, all through my body. It shorted out every single piece of electronics in the exo-pod and my suit and it…it didn't knock me out, exactly, but it was like I had no control. My muscles weren't responding."

He shuddered slightly. Jeff knew the sensation he was talking about. The same weapon, if that was what it was, had been used on him. It was a unique kind of terror, to be totally aware and yet without any semblance of control, and it sickened him that John had been forced to endure it.

"Everything happened kind of fast, after that," John went on. "Someone must've been on the satellite after all, and they grabbed me out of the exo-pod and pushed me into this tiny crawlspace and sealed me in, and I think the rest of the satellite must've blown up, because it was loud and everything was shaking but then it just got dead quiet, like the artificial atmosphere was gone."

John fell silent, his gaze growing distant. Jeff waited, but he didn't continue.

"How long were you in there, John?" Jeff asked quietly. He could just imagine it, the horror of being trapped in the dark by an unknown enemy, unable to move, to hear, to see. Any amount of time would have been too long.

"I don't know. A few hours? It felt like…" John swallowed and shook his head, gaze hardening. "It was probably at least four or five hours. I kept expecting my air to run out, but whatever I was trapped in must've had its own supply. Towards the beginning, I felt these vibrations, and I thought I heard something, but it stopped eventually. I think…I think it might've been Virgil and Alan looking for me."

Jeff blinked.

"Alan?"

"Yeah? _Oh_ , yeah, Dad, Alan's been running real missions with us for over a year."

John's countenance brightened slightly as he talked about his little brother, but Jeff stilled.

"You let your fifteen-year-old brother go on dangerous, life or death missions?" he asked.

"He's sixteen now, and I know what you're thinking, because we felt the same way at first," John said, raising a hand. "We tried to keep Alan home, or just on practice flights and that kind of thing. But one of those practice flights turned into an actual emergency, and he couldn't have handled it better. So Virgil started bringing him along on some of Thunderbird 2's missions, and he kept showing us that he was a qualified asset. You'd be so proud of him, Dad, he's grown so much. He's saved my life more than once."

"And how many times has one of you had to save his?"

John looked down, and Jeff knew that the answer also had to be more than once. He shook his head.

"John-"

"Dad." John raised his head again, and his eyes were full of conviction. "He's not a little kid anymore. He's ready. And the rest of us look out for him."

Jeff forced himself to take a deep breath.

It struck him then, how much of his sons' lives he'd missed. The thought made him ache, and he wanted to ask John about everything else that had happened to him and his brothers in the past two years, but they had more important matters at hand.

"Okay," he said. "We can talk about all that later. You were telling me about what happened to you."

"Right." The shadows entered John's eyes again. "Well, if those vibrations I felt were Alan and Virgil looking for me, they were gone for hours before whatever I was in started to move. I got jostled around for a while, maybe half an hour? Pretty early on I felt what had to be atmospheric reentry, and with pretty second-rate shock absorbers. I still had no control over my body."

Jeff was sitting close enough to feel the shiver that rippled through John. He wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and his son slumped against him.

"When they finally opened whatever it was, I couldn't really see at first. Then people were grabbing me and I-" Jeff tightened the arm around John as he shuddered again, more violently this time. "Maybe it was the adrenaline, but I started to get some control back then. I guess they weren't expecting me to recover from whatever it was as fast as I did, because they weren't ready for it when I started to fight them. I got the drop on the first one…" He frowned down at his scraped knuckles. "But then someone else must've drugged me because I can't remember anything after that, and the next thing I do remember is waking up here feeling like…well, like I wouldn't've been surprised to find out I was dead."

John fell silent as his narrative ended. After a moment, he lifted his gaze to focus on Jeff.

"I can't believe you're really here."

Jeff smiled sadly, sorry that it should be so surprising.

"I just wish _you_ weren't," he said. He sighed, looking over his son. "But still…it sure is good to see you, Johnny."

John gave him a small smile.

"Likewise," he said. "We all missed you."

The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared though. John pulled away slightly to face his father.

"But what's going _on_ , Dad? Where are we? Is the Hood-?"

Jeff held up a hand.

"One thing at a time," he said. He settled himself more comfortably against the wall. This might take a while. "The man holding us is named Kingsley Barrett."

"Of Barrett Enterprises?" John asked, startled.

Jeff nodded.

"But you weren't too far off, when you asked about the Hood. He and Barrett seem to be cut from the same cloth. They have similar interests, similar companies. Similar morals too, so they don't care about who they hurt, so long as they make a profit."

Jeff sighed, tilting his head back against the wall. He supposed he should start at the beginning, too.

"I got shot down on my way home," he said. "Landed in the water."

"I know," John said quietly. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. "I was watching when your signal cut out. Gordon spent hours and hours looking for you, but all he could find were a few pieces of your plane."

Jeff's chest tightened. He could just picture it: Gordon searching the dark sea in his faithful submarine, refusing to give up even as his father's chances dwindled, his brothers all waiting anxiously for the smallest piece of news. And then the aftermath. Jeff had seen what his boys had gone through when Lucy died, and he'd never wanted to be responsible for doing the same thing to them.

"I'm sorry," he told John now. "I never saw it coming. I tried contacting you, but whatever I got hit with must've had a cloaking signal, because I wasn't getting through to Thunderbird 5. There were divers waiting for me the second I hit the water. They knocked me out, and I woke up here."

Jeff looked around the cramped room. It was small and bare, slick white walls disrupted only by the doors to the hallway outside and the equally spartan bathroom.

"I still have no idea where exactly 'here' is," he said. "We could be on the moon, for all I know."

"Nah," John said with a strained smile. "International Rescue's been to the moon too many times since you disappeared. We'd've noticed a secret base."

Jeff raised an eyebrow, but once again resisted the urge to ask about the time he'd missed.

"Good to know, but still not quite enough to narrow it down," he said. "Anyway, I woke up here. I was alone for a few hours, but then Barrett came in."

He felt his fists clench, and he had to make a conscious effort to relax them again. "I didn't understand what was happening, at first. I'd met him before, in a few business meetings. He'd approached me about a partnership with Tracy Industries. I never liked him much, but I never thought he'd be capable of something like this. To be honest, I don't think he'd really been expecting me either. He shot down a Thunderbird, and he didn't know who he'd be pulling out of it. But he didn't let that stop him.

"He laid it all out for me, that first day. He told me I was the new head of his R&D team, and that I'd have the 'opportunity' to design a whole new fleet of vehicles for him." Jeff shook his head. "He wants weaponized versions of the Thunderbirds, John. He wants their power and versatility, but with enough destructive capabilities to make him unstoppable. He'd be able to hold the whole world hostage, and no one would be able to do anything about it."

"Are you _sure_ it isn't the Hood?" John asked. "This all sounds just like him, and we were positive he was responsible for what happened to you. He could just be using Barrett's name; you wouldn't know…Oh." He frowned. "You _did_ know who the Hood was before your crash."

Jeff grimaced.

"John, I would've told you and your brothers if I thought it would help."

"It's okay, Dad. I know you were just trying to protect Kayo.

"She told you?" Jeff asked, surprised.

"Er, something like that. She said you'd always known though."

"I did. I'm just not in the habit of judging people for things outside of their control." He'd also privately hoped that Kayo's knowledge of the Hood would allow her to better protect Tracy Island and its inhabitants from him.

"Neither are we. Kayo's still a sister to us."

A warm swell of pride rose in Jeff's chest. John's focus seemed to have returned to the matter at hand though.

"But why not just try to steal the Thunderbirds and add his own weapons?" he asked. "And does he know you're not our engineer?"

"I may be no Brains, but I still know my way around a rocket," Jeff said wryly. "I could do what he's asking, in theory. I just, you know, _can't_. I'd be doing the kind of harm I've always tried to protect people from. As for why he hasn't tried to steal the Thunderbirds…since I've been gone, has anyone ever suspected Barrett of any wrongdoing?"

"Not to my knowledge," John said.

"Exactly. Right now, he's free to act without much scrutiny. If he went after the Thunderbirds, the GDF would be onto him as fast as you could raise an alarm. He wants to be able to take the world by surprise, seize control before anyone knows what hit them."

"Makes sense." John frowned. "So Barrett has been trying to get you to work for him this whole time?"

"Unsuccessfully. Not for lack of trying though. I don't think he ever expected it to take this long. He neglected to factor in what your grandmother calls my 'stubborn fool bullheadedness.'"

Jeff smiled, but John didn't.

"He's been trying to get weapons designs out of you for _two years_?" he asked.

"Well, he goes through bouts of focus," Jeff said, trying to minimize the damage he could suddenly see looming. "Sometimes he'll forget about me for a while as he works on other projects."

"Sometimes," John said. "But the rest of the time…" His eyes drilled into Jeff's. "He's been torturing you."

It wasn't a question, but Jeff still couldn't answer it. John went pale.

"I don't want you to worry about that, John."

"Don't _worry_ about-"

"No. It was nothing I couldn't handle, and it was a possibility I accepted when I decided to start International Rescue." He'd never been blind to the dangers of the path he'd chosen, although it would've been a lie to say he'd been anticipating this particular scenario. "Besides, Barrett needed me intact. He knew he couldn't do anything too damaging, physically or mentally. He spent the first few months just trying to convince me verbally."

But that was the problem, wasn't it? Barrett couldn't hurt Jeff, but he apparently had no such reservations when it came to his son.

"John," he said, quiet. "We've got bigger problems now."

John frowned at him for a long moment before his eyes went wide. He swallowed, fear flickering across his features.

"Dad…" Jeff could see the moment he understood, and it broke his heart. "Why am _I_ here?"

* * *

As he guided the rocket back into its bay, Scott was acutely aware that he was touching down absent the cargo he'd sworn to himself not to return without. The knowledge weighed on him like a physical burden, threatening to crush his heart in his chest.

 _I'm sorry, Johnny. I'm so sorry._

Virgil didn't look at him as they released their safety restraints and rose from their seats, but Scott knew his brother was in a similar state. He wanted to say something to him, to pull him close like he hadn't since Dad died, to do _something_ to ease the misery that was radiating from the younger man. But for all that Virgil was often the emotional support of the Tracy family, he could be terrible at receiving it himself. Scott didn't think he'd be allowed to help, not yet. And he didn't have the first idea how, even if he were. Not when he was feeling the same way.

But he had to try. He always had to try.

"Virgil-"

"Scott," Virgil cut him off at once, still not looking at him as Thunderbird 3's hatch slid open and the loading platform extended towards them. "I'm sorry, I- I just-"

There was a frantic edge to his voice, a wildness, almost. He was going to fall apart, Scott realized with a lurch, and he didn't want his brother to have to witness it.

"I understand," he said. "Just- I'm here, all right?"

Virgil nodded tightly without looking at him, and he strode away the second he could, his long legs carrying him quickly out of sight.

Scott stayed behind, completing Thunderbird 3's usual post-flight checks, making sure he left Alan's ship exactly as he'd found it. It gave him something to do, something familiar and mindless. Too mindless. Because the last of his numb denial had worn away now, and there was a storm brewing in its wake.

Finally, there was nothing left for him to do but exit the rocket, striding out into the massive hangar that held the rest of the Thunderbirds. Well, most of them. Scott's eyes were drawn inevitably to the circular platform with the number '5' emblazoned on its side. It was so often empty that he rarely noticed it, rarely gave it any thought. He'd taken for granted the fact that it didn't _need_ to be empty.

There was no reason for it, nothing to be gained, but Scott's feet carried him out onto the platform anyway. He tilted his head back, looking up at the hatch high overhead. Three weeks ago, that hatch had opened to allow the space elevator to carry John up and away from his home, out of reach. And none of them had known it would be the last time.

Scott opened his mouth and _screamed_ , a wordless, furious, devastated cry that echoed through the cavernous hangar. He wasn't sure who or what he was screaming at, maybe the heavens that had claimed his little brother or the father who'd left him with the crushing responsibility of looking after his siblings alone or a God he'd never believed in or the universe at large. He just knew that when he ran out of breath, he filled his lungs and screamed again, and again, unleashing the tide of grief that was trying to swallow him whole.

And when it was over, he was on his knees, head in his hands as he gasped. His throat and eyes burned and his shoulders shook and he still couldn't _breathe_. But he had to. Because he was still alive, and so were his other brothers, and there was nothing to do but keep going.

Finally he rose, feeling like his body weighed a thousand pounds. When he turned, he caught sight of the silent figure waiting behind him at the edge of the platform, and he froze. He just stared at Alan, at something of a loss for what to say.

"You didn't find him, did you?" Alan asked. His voice was small and ragged with pain, but it was the slightest note of hope in it that twisted the dagger in Scott's chest.

Mutely, he shook his head. Alan's expression crumpled, and he looked away.

Alan had been growing into a remarkable young man lately, more than holding his own as a true member of International Rescue. But just then, he looked all of five years old again, being told his mom wasn't coming home. He wrapped his arms around himself, and Scott could tell he was just as close as Virgil had been to falling apart. But unlike Virgil, he might be willing to let his big brother help.

Scott closed the distance between them and folded Alan into his arms, holding him close.

"I'm sorry, Alan," he whispered. "I'm sorry we couldn't bring him home."

Alan let out a muffled choking noise, and collapsed against Scott's chest. He began to cry, gut-wrenching, shameless sobs. It was probably the first time he'd broken down since this nightmare began, and the force of his grief wracked his small body. Scott held him tightly, as if he could singlehandedly keep him together.

Alan was too big to be carried, but Scott scooped him up anyway, cradling him close to his chest. He felt narrow fingers tangle up in his shirt, grabbing hold as if he'd disappear. But Alan wouldn't be losing any more brothers. Not tonight, not ever. Scott wouldn't allow it.

He carried Alan up to the hall that held all of their bedrooms, but then he hesitated. It wasn't something they talked about much, but he knew that Alan hadn't slept in his bed since Dad died. Scott had never pressed him for a reason; they all dealt with their grief in their own ways. But he didn't want him to be on the floor tonight.

So he headed for his own room instead, kicking off his boots by the door and using his foot to tug back the covers on the neatly-made bed. He tried to set Alan down on the mattress, but his brother wouldn't let go of him, and quite frankly, Scott didn't want to let him go either.

In the morning, he would talk to Brains, call the GDF, start trying to figure out what had happened, how everything had gone so terribly wrong. But for now, he would be a brother.

He climbed into the bed beside Alan, not caring that he was still wearing his flight suit. He tucked the covers over both of them, letting Alan burrow in close. Scott curled protectively around him, as if by doing so he'd be able to shield him from the world. As if it wasn't already far too late for that.

A sliver of light entered the room, growing wider with a soft creak as the door was pushed open slowly. Scott looked up to see a familiar silhouette framed in the doorway. Gordon didn't say a word, and he hesitated on the threshold, as if not sure whether or not he was welcome, too old to receive the same comfort as his little brother.

Scott freed one of his arms and lifted an edge of the blanket in silent invitation. Gordon strode forward at once, climbing into the bed on the opposite side from Alan. He curled up into a tight ball, his back pressed against Scott's. Trusting his big brother to protect him from what waited in the dark.

When Scott began to cry, he tried to do it silently.


	5. Stand Your Ground

**_A/N:_** _It's probably already become apparent from previous chapters, but I still feel the need to warn that there will be references to torture throughout the rest of this story. It's bloodless and will never be described, but it's there._

 _Also, there was something weird about notifications for the last update, so if you've been subscribed to this story, you might want to check and make sure you've read the chapter that comes before this one. As always, thank you so much for the reviews. They truly make my day._

* * *

To say that John was still reeling from the events of the past 24 hours would be an understatement so vast as to be comical under other circumstances. His kidnapping would have been staggering enough, but to wake up to find that his father was still alive, that John was to be used as leverage to get him to build weapons for a greedy sociopath…it was too much to process at once. Joy and anger and terror were warring within him, threatening to overwhelm him.

John didn't break down easily though, and he'd managed to find a state of calm, such as it was. It wasn't that he didn't understand what was coming, how bad things might get. But he also shared his father's conviction, and that meant there was nothing he could do but brace himself and hope he could make it through. So instead of simply waiting around in fear, he'd decided to take advantage of the one positive aspect of this nightmare, and just chat with his dad for the first time in two years.

He started with an update on their family.

"Grandma Tracy's been keeping us all in line," he was saying. "No easy task, but she's more than up to it. She even helped Virgil out in the field on a mission last year."

"She _what_?"

John grinned at Dad's expression.

"It's true," he said. "Virgil was taking her to visit Lady Penelope in London when the Hood triggered an EMF device that shut down every electronic device in the city, including all the ones in Thunderbird 2."

That had been a terrifying few hours. Virgil's signal had just been _gone_ , and nothing John did could get it back, or penetrate the bubble of radio silence surrounding London. He wasn't used to being so blind or helpless, particularly where his family was concerned. He'd sent Scott after Virgil and Grandma, but Thunderbird 1's systems had started to fail just outside the city limits, and he'd been forced to turn back. All they'd been able to do then was wait.

"Apparently," John went on, "she coached Virgil through a Stone Age rescue, and then helped him and Lady Penelope stop some kind of luddite cult, all in time to get the lights back on for afternoon tea."

Dad shook his head, his lips twitching.

"I'll just bet she did," he said. He let out a bemused huff of air. "My mother, on a rescue. I would've paid to see that."

Him and John both.

"It's been good to have her on the Island," John said. "Although, there are definitely times when I'm grateful to be up on Thunderbird 5. Grandma _has_ come close to poisoning us on more than one occasion."

Dad laughed. It had a slightly disused quality to it, but it was still a rich, booming sound that had John blinking away an abrupt wave of tears. He hadn't realized how much he'd _missed_ that laugh.

"Yeah, it's a good thing your Grandpa was such a good cook, or I'm not sure I would've made it to adulthood," Dad said. "But there was no escaping the cookies."

"Oh believe me, there still isn't."

John treasured the sight of Dad's smile. It vanished in an instant though, and then Dad was on his feet, placing his body between the bench and the door that was just beginning to slide open.

John blinked and looked up, his stomach lurching. He couldn't see past Dad, who was standing protectively in front of him, as if he could shield his son from view and whatever was coming. But that wasn't possible, and John didn't want to face this cowering behind his father.

He stood as well. His legs were slightly unsteady beneath him, but they held, and he went to take his place at Dad's shoulder. There was the faintest trace of a distortion in the air, and John realized that the force field Dad had told him about had been activated. Through it, he could see the man standing in the doorway, flanked by armed guards.

John recognized Kingsley Barrett now. Scott was the one who had taken over as CEO of Tracy Industries after Dad's disappearance, but John oversaw the company's finances, and he helped his brother keep up to date. By necessity, John was always plugged in, always monitoring the globe and its billions of inhabitants. It wasn't too hard to narrow that focus to the corporate world when he needed to.

But Barrett was something of an unknown in that world. His company was usually a consistent earner, but it had never gained much of a reputation for itself. It'd had a few costly missteps in the last few years, investing in enterprises that were doomed to failure, and rumor had it that it was hemorrhaging capital. Perhaps that was why its owner had turned to such extreme measures.

Barrett glanced at John for a moment, his gaze cool and assessing, before focusing on Dad.

"Well, Jeff? This is your last chance to do things the easy way."

John spared Dad the pain of his answer.

"It's not the easy way if it puts the entire world at risk," he said, taking a step forward.

"Is that what your father told you?" Barrett asked him. "Oh, John, he's sadly misrepresented me. I mean the world no harm. I don't want weapons because I want to _use_ them, I want them so that no one else can."

John fixed him with an unimpressed look. He had it on good authority (i.e. Gordon) that the expression was quite quelling.

"I thought you knew I was smart, Mr. Barrett."

Barrett shrugged and waved a hand behind him. He retreated into the doorway as the armed men strode past him into the cell. John heard the faint change in the ambient sound of the room that meant the force field had dropped again, and then the guards were upon them. Three of them grabbed Dad to hold him in place, while the others seized John by the arms. It was then that things seemed to become real for Dad, the moment he well and truly realized what was about to happen.

"No, wait!" he said urgently, tugging against the hold on his arms. "Barrett, _please_ , you don't have to do this, take me instead!"

Barrett just sneered at him.

"We already tried that," he said. "It didn't work, remember? Like I told you, new methods."

He nodded at the guards, who started hauling John backwards, towards the door. John had told himself that he wasn't going to resist, wasn't going to make this any more difficult than it had to be, but his heart rate still spiked, and cold sweat still broke out over his skin as reality began to sink in for him too. He sought his father's gaze desperately.

"Be strong, John," Dad urged, his attempt at a reassuring expression marred by the fear and anguish that haunted his eyes. "You'll get through this, I promise. I'm here, son."

But then the cell door was closing, blocking him from view.

"Don't worry," Barrett told John. "He'll see you again quite soon. I'm afraid it will be some time longer before you see him though."

John wasn't sure he wanted to know what that meant.

He focused on his surroundings as they went. He was being marched through a harshly lit corridor, tubelike in design. A few doors branched off into what looked like laboratory facilities, workshops, a server room, all without any windows that would let him start to figure out where they were. Many of the rooms appeared to be empty.

"What's the matter?" John asked Barrett. "Couldn't find any real talent to work for you willingly?"

"I have plenty of people lined up for when your father finally starts cooperating, you spoiled little brat," Barrett snapped. "Until then, there wouldn't be much for them to do, would there?"

John thought it was a little rich to call someone who slept in a spacesuit and never got to finish a damn bagel because he spent every waking moment trying to save others a spoiled brat. Still, he'd been called worse because of his father's fortune, and it was hardly his greatest concern.

"With facilities like this, you could be doing some real work here," he said. "Now, I know my father is pretty impressive, but he's not the only innovator in the world. If you hired people to work on their _own_ projects, I think you'd be amazed at the results you'd get."

Barrett just stared at him for a moment. And then he snorted.

"God, the whole lot of you really are smug, superior sons of bitches, aren't you?" he asked. "I can't wait to see you shut up."

A moment later, John was being tugged into another room, cold and barren. A metal table equipped with wrist and ankle restraints stood in its center, one end raised slightly higher than the other. John's eyes landed on the drain in the floor, and his heart jumped into his throat.

He had never been a fan of horror movies. Scott loved them, and Gordon had started watching them with him the moment he was old enough. But John had never understood the appeal, had never been able to keep himself from empathizing with the doomed characters. He'd always felt their fear and pain with them. Or at least, he thought he had. He was realizing now that he'd never been quite this scared before, on a deep, visceral level.

He spotted the row of gallon jugs beside the table, and this time he couldn't stop himself from starting to struggle.

Scott had been teaching him how to fight since he was eight and facing schoolyard bullies, but shockingly, none of his lessons had covered what to do when three dispassionate gorillas were trying to strap him down to be tortured. It therefore wasn't long before he was being wrestled onto the table, his wrists and ankles forced into the restraints. Memories long buried surfaced, and brought with them childish panic. He flailed, yanking at the unforgiving metal cuffs even as it earned him nothing but torn skin and bone-deep bruises. His breathing sped into desperate gasps, his heart thundering in his ears.

"Are you seeing this, Jeff?" Barrett's voice asked. "Remember, you can stop it any time."

John stopped struggling at the sound of the familiar name, his eyes darting around the room. His father wasn't there, but he spotted the beady eye of a camera in the ceiling overhead. A cold stab of horror pierced him as he realized Barrett was going to make Dad _watch_ this.

"You're sick," he whispered.

"Maybe. But I'm also going to be the most powerful man in the world soon."

John swallowed hard, but didn't look away from this new face of evil. He took a deep breath, forcing himself once more into a state of calm. If Dad could remain strong through two years of this, then so could John.

"This isn't gonna go how you're hoping," he said. "I won't tell you anything, and neither will my father. And my brothers will find me soon, and we'll see how much power you have then."

Barrett just gave him a pitying look.

"Oh, Johnny. Your brothers aren't _looking_."

* * *

"You look like someone who could use a drink."

Virgil jumped, and dragged his stinging eyes away from the void he'd been staring up into. He turned his head to see Scott clambering out of the access hatch onto the curved roof of the observation tower, a clinking tote-bag slung over his shoulder.

Virgil didn't bother asking how Scott had found him. They knew each other too well, and Scott knew that if Virgil had really wanted to be alone, he wouldn't have come here. It was the highest place you could get on Tracy Island without climbing gear or a jetpack, and had always been the first place to look for John when he was on Earth but missing from the villa. It had been his sanctuary, his place to hide from the noise and gravity.

"I hope you're saying that because you intend to fix it," Virgil told Scott.

His brother smiled tightly and withdrew a sweating brown bottle from his bag. Virgil was tempted to ask for something stronger, but he propped himself up on his elbows and took the beer. It was one of the craft brews he liked, the kind he so rarely allowed himself to drink. Alcohol could be a scarce commodity on Tracy Island, where everyone had to be ready to drop everything and mount a rescue at a moment's notice. But there was no one to dispatch him on a rescue tonight.

Virgil twisted the cap off the beer and took a long draft, the liquid bitter on his tongue. He returned his gaze to the stars he'd been staring up at before Scott arrived. They twinkled benevolently overhead, uncaring that John was no longer among them.

The day had passed like a dream. Not the good kind, the kind you were sad to wake up from. Rather, it had been like a nightmare; the slow, creeping kind with no axe-murderers or jump scares, just the bone-deep, inescapable certainty that something was horribly wrong.

He said nothing as Scott settled down beside him. His brother uncapped a beer of his own, but he didn't drink. He just tilted his head back to follow the direction of Virgil's gaze.

"Looks emptier up there somehow, doesn't it?" he remarked.

Virgil said nothing. He'd broken down already, had sobbed out his shock and grief and guilt, and now he just felt empty, shattered. But it was a sharp, malignant kind of empty, consuming and cruel. He'd spent the day with his family, doling out hugs and bracing smiles and making sure his little brothers were eating. Taking care of others usually calmed something inside him, made him feel whole, but the piece of him that had been torn away by that explosion had rendered that impossible this time. He'd come into this world as part of a package deal, and he didn't know what 'whole' meant anymore.

"Have you slept at all?" Scott asked him after the silence had stretched on, his tone concerned now.

Virgil grimaced and took another sip of beer to give himself a pause before answering.

"I tried," he said finally. He didn't elaborate.

He felt Scott shift closer to him.

"Virgil."

Virgil suppressed another grimace. He had no leg to stand on, he knew. He was always the one pushing Scott not to bottle things up, to just _talk_ about what was bothering him. He should've known he wouldn't get away with trying to turn the tables.

"We let him isolate himself up there," he said finally. "I know he liked being alone, I get that. But he spent way more time in space after Dad died, and we let him. We just let him hide himself away, even though we knew he was hurting, because we thought we had _time_ …" His throat closed, and he blinked back the tears that rushed to his eyes.

"I know," Scott sighed. "We talked to him every single day, and I let myself believe it was enough, but it wasn't, was it?"

There wasn't much to say to that. A few minutes passed without words. Virgil listened to the ambient sounds of the island: the whispering rustle of leaves, the chirps and croaks and hoots of jungle life, the rhythmic crash of waves on the distant beach. It was nothing like the suffocating silence of space.

"I miss him, Scott," Virgil admitted at last, quiet. "It's only been a day, and I miss him more than I think I'll ever know how to deal with."

"Virg…" Scott's tone was different now, almost hesitant. As if he were steeling himself. "Something's not right."

Virgil choked on a bitter, humorless laugh.

"You think?"

"That's not what I meant. I don't mean things are horrible, I mean they're…they're _fishy_."

Virgil blinked. He sat up and turned to his brother.

"Fishy?" he repeated flatly.

"Think about it." Scott looked away from the stars and focused intently on Virgil. "John may have spent most of his time in space, but that doesn't mean he was less experienced, or didn't know what he was doing. If anything, he was the _most_ experienced, because he listened in on every rescue, advised all of us. He shouldn't've gotten caught off guard. And I talked to Brains today. He's been looking over the pieces of the exo-pod we brought home, and he says the damage isn't consistent with something that would've vaporized a human body."

"Scott, we looked-"

"Everywhere, I know. So I talked to Eos to see if she'd managed to get in touch with anyone from Stelair Aeronautics so we could ask to the see wreckage they recovered, and she still hadn't been able to get through to anyone. So then I called the GDF and asked Colonel Casey about it, but she just called me back and said that no one could find anything about Stelair."

Virgil frowned at his brother. Scott's face was shadowed, his expression hard to read.

"What do you mean, no one could find anything?"

"Stelair Aeronautics doesn't seem to exist, Virgil. Apparently trying to trace it just leads back to a string of shell corporations with no actual people at the end of it that they've been able to find."

"Then whose satellite blew up?"

"That's a good question. And an even better question is _why_ , because there was no meteorite activity recorded in the area at the time of the distress call to Thunderbird 5."

Virgil stared blankly at Scott, unable or unwilling to process what he was hearing.

"So what are you saying?" he asked reluctantly.

"I'm saying…" Scott took a deep breath. "I'm saying I don't think this was an accident. And I don't think we were ever going to find John's body up there, no matter how long we looked."

"You think someone…took it?"

"No. I think someone took _him_."

 _Alive_ , he didn't say, but Virgil could hear it nonetheless. Instinctively, automatically, his heart leapt at the possibility. But the very next instant, reality clocked him squarely in the chest. He'd already been burned by false hope, and he wasn't about to go through that again.

"Scott, don't do this to yourself," he said. "I know you want to believe-"

"I'm not in denial, Virgil," Scott interrupted. "I'm telling you that these are the facts. Whoever did this clearly wanted to target International Rescue, specifically our space operations. If they wanted John dead, they could've just blown up Thunderbird 5, but they didn't, they went to the trouble of the ruse with the satellite. Why would anyone do that, if not to make sure no one was looking for him?"

When Virgil still didn't say anything, Scott reached over to put a hand on his arm.

"Believe me, I know it hurts to hope, but if there's even a _chance_ …"

He didn't have to finish the sentence. If there was a chance, then there was no choice, no deliberation. Virgil set aside the rest of his beer, took a deep breath, and met his brother's eyes.

"How do we do this?"

* * *

Jeff was in hell. He'd been there before, more than once, but this…this was in a league of its own.

He'd been pacing restlessly, but he found himself drawing to a halt, his gaze pulled to the empty air in the middle of his cell. For _hours_ , an image had been projected there. The hologram technology had been cutting-edge. Horrifyingly so.

John had been so _scared_. That was the worst part. He'd been terrified, but had clearly been trying not to show it. He'd remained defiant in the face of his tormenters, offering them nothing but cutting looks when they…when they gave him a chance to _breathe_.

Jeff looked away again, his stomach turning. It was a father's job to protect his sons, not stand by and _watch_ while they took torture meant for him.

The live feed of John had cut out nearly ten minutes ago, and Jeff hated himself for wishing that it was still on, because at least then he could see his son, could know that he was still more or less intact. Now, all he had was his imagination, and the _memories_ …He grit his teeth and clenched his hands into fists, resuming his pacing.

For the first time, he was grateful to hear the familiar sound of the door opening. He whirled around at once, nearly knocking against the force field as it appeared. And then his gaze was locked on the figures entering the cell. John was suspended between two guards, his head drooping, feet dragging on the floor.

His hair was still wet.

Jeff's vision went greyish-red around the edges, and his ears roared. Barrett stepped into the cell behind his men, and Jeff focused on him. It felt like the strength of his hate alone should be burning through the force field between them.

"I'm going to kill you," he promised in a low growl.

He'd never made that threat before, to anyone. Jeff was an altruist, a believer in the good of humanity and the value of life, but God, did he mean it this time.

But Barrett just smiled.

"No, you're not," he said simply. "Because you can't. You've proven more than once that you're weaker than me. Now listen to me, Jeff. I've shown you what I'm willing to do. I'll give you three days to reconsider, with that in mind. After that, my men will return for your son. You've seen what happens then."

He left, and John slumped to the floor as the guards released him before following their boss. The door closed behind them, leaving Jeff alone with his son. John hadn't moved since he'd hit the floor, but he'd broken his fall with his hands, so Jeff knew he was conscious. He kept a hand against the force field, waiting impatiently for it to vanish.

"I'm here, John," he called. "Just hang in there, I'll be there in a second."

John didn't answer, but the hand closest to Jeff twitched in his direction to let him know he'd been heard. Jeff waited, but the barrier remained in place. He pushed against it more forcefully, but it didn't budge.

"No," he muttered. "No, no, no, come on. Not this."

He banged against the barrier with his fist, but all he got were bruised knuckles. John began to shudder, his pale cheeks tinged greyish green.

"You sick bastard!" Jeff shouted at the ceiling that held the holoprojector, which he suspected also served as a listening device. "Let me go to him!"

John flinched at the noise, and retching coughs started to wrack his body. He turned his head away, as if in an attempt to spare Jeff the sight of the watery fluid that came streaming out of his mouth. As if Jeff hadn't already watched in agonizing detail what had been done to him.

Jeff forced himself to search for calm. He crouched lower to the floor, modulating his voice.

"Just try to breathe through it, son," he called softly. "I'm still right here, I'm not going anywhere. Just breathe."

And slowly, too slowly, John's retching eased, his shaking slowed. His muscles went limp, his eyes closing for a moment. He was breathing like he'd run a marathon, and Jeff was alarmed by how well he could make out the sound.

"John?"

Finally, John turned his head to look at him. His weary eyes were bloodshot, making their already vibrant irises stand out to an almost surreal degree. The skin around his mouth and nose was raw, and wide bruises were purpling on his wrists from where he'd fought his restraints. And still, he tried to offer his father a reassuring smile.

"I'll be all right, Dad," he promised, his voice a ruined rasp.

Jeff felt his expression crumple as that one hit him like a kick to the chest, but he quickly got his features under control again. He did his best to smile back at his son.

"I know you will, John," he said. "You always were one tough cookie."

John huffed weakly and rolled his eyes.

"Dad, no one calls anyone over the age of thirteen a tough cookie."

"Call it a father's privilege."

John's expression flickered.

"Yeah," he said softly. "I guess I'm not gonna fight you on that one."

He hauled himself on trembling arms to the floor beside where Jeff was kneeling, until they were separated by scant inches and an invisible force field. John curled his body towards Jeff and let his eyes drift shut. He shuddered again.

"Keep talking to me?" he asked, sounding younger now, more like the boy who had crept into his parents' bedroom after nightmares.

Jeff's knees were screaming in protest, but he ignored them, settling more comfortably onto the floor. He rested his hand on the cool tile, so close to John's they should have been touching. He had no stars to offer his son this time, no blanket reassurances, but he would always have stories to tell, distractions from what waited in the dark behind closed eyes.

"Did I ever tell you about how your Mom and I got banned from every single Olive Garden in the world for life?"


	6. Cold Truth

"Global Defense Force, this is International Rescue, requesting assistance. International Rescue to Global Defense Force, Thunderbird 1 has suffered mechanical difficulties and is stranded." Scott rattled off the coordinates of his current position, peering out the front window of the cockpit at the unwelcoming glacier outside. "I've been cut off from the rest of International Rescue and I require immediate assistance."

Scott repeated the message a few more times, hoping. No answer was forthcoming.

After waiting for almost half an hour, repeating the hail periodically, he climbed out of his seat and began to rummage through his supplies for the winter weather emergency gear. Brains had designed all of their suits to be insulated against the cold, but Scott snagged a few chemical warming packs for his hands and feet anyway, not sure how long he might be spending outside. Then he put on his helmet, braced himself, and left the warm safety of his ship for the barren, icy expanse of the Antarctic glacier. He stomped around to one of the access panels on the belly of Thunderbird 1 and retracted it to give himself access to its electronics.

 _"_ _My, my, what's this? Surely the mighty International Rescue hasn't suffered something so mundane as a breakdown."_

Scott tensed automatically at the voice that shouldn't have been so familiar, even warped as it was by a loudspeaker. Then he turned to squint up at the ship looming overhead. It was smaller than the one that was currently in pieces on the ocean floor around Tracy Island, but it had clearly still been designed to look impressive and intimidating.

 _"_ _Your precious GDF isn't coming, I'm afraid,"_ the Hood said. Scott could just make out his smug face through the windscreen of the ship's bridge as the ship drew closer. _"I cracked that channel you were broadcasting on weeks ago. No one heard your pathetic cry for help except me."_

"And let me guess," Scott shouted. "Your help comes with a Thunderbird-sized price tag?"

The Hood cackled; an ugly, nasal sound that mingled with the howl of wind over the barren expanse of ice.

 _"_ _My help doesn't come at all, you fool,"_ he said. _"But because we're such old acquaintances, I'll let you have a quick death, rather than leaving you to freeze when I take your ship."_

Scott heard the hum of plasma cannons charging, and he watched two unnecessarily large gun turrets swinging towards him. He grit his teeth, his heart rate spiking. Was this what John had felt, in that split second of warning before the explosion?

There was a faint whistling sound that almost got lost in the roar of engines and wind, and then the Hood's ship shuddered. The engine noise cut out with an unhealthy sputter, and the cannons drooped from their aim at Scott. The ship began to plummet towards the ice, landing seconds later with a booming thud that sent shockwaves rippling through the glacier.

Scott just looked at the fallen behemoth for a moment, before turning back to Thunderbird 1.

"You cut that a little close," he remarked.

"I had to wait until he was close enough to the ground to survive the crash." The reply came from above Scott, where Virgil was clambering out of an access hatch atop Thunderbird 1.

Virgil slid down the side of the silver rocket and dropped to the ice beside Scott. The two of them set off at a run for the fallen ship.

It had been Scott's idea to lure in the Hood with a false distress signal. The man had been after their technology since the beginning of International Rescue, so it stood to reason that he would jump at the apparent chance to snatch a disabled Thunderbird. Virgil had been behind the EMP cannon that took out the ship though. He'd apparently drawn inspiration from a situation he'd dealt with the year before, a terrorist attack in London. Once the two of them had their plan in place, it just became a matter of picking the location and setting the trap.

Now, Scott and Virgil climbed up the front of the Hood's disabled ship, making use of the magnet technology that Brains had taken to installing in their suits. As they neared the outside of the bridge, they could hear the faint sound of cursing as the Hood evidently struggled to get out of his safety restraints. Once they reached the windscreen, now spiderwebbed with cracks from impact, Scott hung back a little while Virgil made short work of the rest of the glass. Then they both climbed into the cramped bridge.

The Hood had finally managed to get free of his seat, and he was heading for some kind of panel set in the wall. The sight of him, this man who had stolen so much from the Tracys, sent a wave of rage crashing through Scott. He'd thought to do this calmly, methodically, but that didn't feel like an option just then.

He charged across the cramped space and threw himself at the Hood, tackling him to the ground. They tussled, but Scott was the younger and stronger of the two, with military training to boot, and it wasn't long before he had the Hood pinned to the floor. He swung a fist into the man's hateful face, his blood boiling.

"Where is he, you slimy bastard?" he cried.

Virgil caught his hand before he could swing again, but didn't try to pull him away. Despite being thoroughly trapped, the Hood still tried to give them both disdainful looks.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said.

"Stelair Aeronautics," Virgil said. "Is owned by so many shell corporations, you probably thought we wouldn't be able to trace it, didn't you? But you didn't count on our resources. We found your fingerprints eventually."

The resources in question had really just been Eos, devoting her impressive computing power to finding whoever was behind Stelair. And while she still hadn't been able to find anything conclusive, some of the shell corporations had also been used in schemes involving the Hood. It was a tenuous connection, not enough to take to the GDF, but Scott and Virgil hadn't needed anything else.

The Hood frowned, looking back and forth between them.

"So?" he asked belligerently. "I'm a wealthy man; I have ties to many industries."

" _So_ a Stelair satellite mounted an attack on International Rescue, possibly capturing one of our own, and you're behind it."

"And we want to know what you did with our brother," Scott added.

The Hood stared at them for a long moment. His eyes widened slightly and an ugly look crossed his face, but then he forced a cruel smile.

"I'm afraid I still have no idea what you're talking about," he said. "If one of you was taken, I assure you, I had nothing to do with it."

"You lying-" Virgil squeezed Scott's shoulder to cut off the angry tirade.

"Just tell us, Hood," he said, suppressed tension in his voice. "Is he still alive?"

The Hood sat up a little, propping himself up on his elbows. His eyes bore into theirs.

"Get this through your thick skulls," he said slowly. "The last time I successfully eliminated one of you miserable lot, it was your father. If something's happened to another one of you, it's not my doing." He studied them. "You said it was a satellite. Does that mean it was that insufferable child who bought it?"

Virgil's fingers tightened on Scott's shoulder, and Scott shot an uncertain glance up at him. The Hood thought it was _Alan_ who had been involved? His relish at the thought seemed genuine. But wouldn't that mean…

"Oh, so perhaps not the brat," the Hood said, noticing their hesitation. "The other astronaut, then? That self-righteous little prick who watches and judges the rest of us from his space station?" He saw in their faces that he'd guessed right this time. "My, my, that _is_ troublesome. By my understanding, that one was rather critical to your whole operation."

Scott said nothing, his stomach clenching. He didn't trust the Hood as far as he could throw Thunderbird 1, but his instincts were telling him that the man was being sincere. But he had to keep trying, because if the Hood wasn't responsible, then they had _nothing_.

"Do you want a ransom?" he asked, hearing the desperation that leaked into his tone. "Is that it? Or did you take him to cripple us?"

The Hood scowled.

"Are you hearing impaired?" he asked. "I. Did. Not. Take. Your. Brother. Don't you think I'd be using him as a bargaining chip right now if I had?" His expression turned thoughtful. "I don't suppose this satellite would be the same one that suffered an unfortunate accident last week?"

Scott couldn't suppress his wince, and a predatory light sparked in the Hood's eyes.

"That was quite a nasty explosion, if the news reports are to be believed. Are you certain that your brother has been taken, and not simply blown to smithereens?"

"Shut up," Virgil snapped before Scott could say something harsher.

Scott looked up at him again. He could see his own uneasiness mirrored in his brother's face.

"Oh dear," the Hood said with a cruel smile. "It appears as though your little astronaut is dead. My condolences. I'll have some flowers shipped to that ridiculous island of yours."

"I don't think so," Scott snarled. "Even if you didn't have anything to do with what happened to John, you're still a criminal and a fugitive. We'll call the GDF to come pick you up, and you'll be going right back to that prison cell."

"Because it held me so well the first time?" the Hood asked tauntingly as Virgil stepped away to put in the call. "Well, as entertaining as it would be to prove to you and the GDF again that you're incapable of holding me, I simply don't have the time. So I'm afraid I'll have to cut this lovely little chat short."

In a sudden display of strength and agility that really shouldn't have been so surprising, given whom he was related to, the Hood twisted himself free of Scott's hold and slammed his hand down onto a button in the panel behind him. Scott had been so focused on the interrogation that he hadn't noticed the faint hum of the ship's systems coming back online, recovered from the hastily-assembled EMP. He hauled the Hood away from the panel, but it was too late.

A compartment in the ceiling slid open, and a dense grey swarm billowed out, splitting into two streams that darted towards Scott and Virgil. Scott let go of the Hood and raised his hands protectively just as his cloud reached him.

It turned out to be a seething mass of tiny mechanical bee-like creatures, no doubt a product of the Hood's partnership with the Mechanic. Some of them clicked harmlessly against his helmet, but the rest swarmed over his suit, driving their stingers into the thick material and leaving sharp metal barbs behind. Scott waved his arms, trying to fend them off, but it was useless. Within moments, dozens of stings were peppering his body, each one seeming to carry with it a small but painful electrical charge. He suspected it wouldn't be long before he was overwhelmed and paralyzed.

Scott heard a cry of surprise, and he looked to see Virgil toppling backwards through the opening left by the shattered glass of the windscreen. Scott dove after his brother, managing to grab him by the utility belt, but Virgil's weight and momentum proved to be too much, and they both went tumbling from the ship.

They landed hard on the ice, and every cc of air promptly evacuated Scott's lungs. He wheezed, spots of light and dark warring in his vision. His whole body ached and stung, but he was pretty sure the bees were leaving them alone now. He blinked, wondering if this might be a good time for a nap. It certainly seemed like it, all the sudden.

"Scott, get up, get up, _get up_!"

Virgil was tugging at him insistently, so Scott reluctantly scrambled to his feet to see what was so urgent. It didn't take him long to figure it out. The Hood had armed his plasma cannons again, but he wasn't pointing them at the two brothers.

A high-pitched whine was followed by an echoing boom, and then the ice was cracking twenty meters in front of Scott and Virgil. This wouldn't have been a particularly significant issue, if not for the fact that twenty meters _behind_ them was the edge of the glacier.

Scott exchanged a wordless look with Virgil, and then the two of them began to sprint towards the rapidly widening crack. But then the Hood fired another blast, and Scott was knocked off his feet by the concussive force. He tried to stand, but then the ice began to tilt beneath him, shearing away from the larger mass.

He yelled, throwing himself at Virgil, trying to get them to solid ground. But they'd always been too far away to make it, and Scott wasn't wearing his jetpack. The best he could do was cling tightly to his brother as they began to slide down the surface of the falling ice. He fumbled for his grappling hook with one hand and launched it just as he and Virgil went flying over the edge and into free-fall towards the dark, roiling sea below.

The hook anchored itself in the ice, and the brothers were jerked sharply as the line took their weight. But then the ice splintered, and the hook burst free in an explosion of glittering white shards. The surface of the water was coming up quickly now, and Scott understood physics too well to think they had a chance of surviving impact.

Oh. Oh _no_. No no no no no they couldn't do this to Alan and Gordon.

Virgil was shouting something, but Scott couldn't hear him over the sound of the wind and his own pulse pounding in his ears. Scott clutched him close and tried to orient them as they fell, so that he was below his brother. Maybe if he struck the surface first, Virgil would have a better chance-

They slammed into something hard, and sparks exploded in Scott's vision as the breath was punched out of him for the second time in as many minutes. They rolled once, limbs tangling together, knees digging into kidneys, elbows striking jaws, before fetching up against something. But they were still moving somehow, the wind screaming around them, although it didn't feel like falling anymore. And…Scott blinked and looked sideways to see Virgil grimacing beside him. Yep, and they definitely weren't dead.

By the time he'd collected himself enough to lift his head, they were no longer moving. He loosened his grip on Virgil and sat up, removing his helmet, which was now webbed with cracks. The movement brought him face to face with Kayo, who was glaring at him through the glass over Thunderbird Shadow's cockpit.

"Uh oh," he heard Virgil say beside him.

Kayo popped the cockpit open.

"Are you two all right?" she asked.

"Thanks to you," Scott told her. He glanced over at Virgil, blinking as he got a good look at him. "Uh…"

"I'm fine too," Virgil dismissed, despite the fact that unlike Scott, he hadn't been wearing a helmet during the attack of the killer robo-bees, and it…showed.

"Good," Kayo said shortly. "So there should be nothing stopping you from telling me why I just had to save your lives from the Hood?"

The reminder of their nemesis had Scott craning his neck to search the skies. The Hood's ship was already a shrinking dot disappearing into the horizon.

"He's gone," Kayo informed them, her voice almost as chilly as the air around them. "It was between chasing him and saving you two from falling to your deaths."

"How did you find us in the first place?" Scott asked.

It was apparently the wrong thing to say. Kayo's eyes flashed dangerously.

"You mean after I realized you'd lied to me about going to visit Lady Penelope?" she demanded. "Brains picked up your distress call on some of his old equipment. I wondered why you weren't calling us, but I figured there must've been some kind of explanation for it. Maybe your equipment was damaged, and you could only get signals to receivers outside of our system, or maybe Eos was acting up like she did when she was first created. You see, it hadn't crossed my mind by then that you didn't _want_ us to hear you. So I went to find Virgil so he could take Thunderbird 2 to come help you."

Scott shrank under the weight of Kayo's hard gaze.

It had been by mutual agreement that he and Virgil had decided to keep their mission to themselves, at least until they had more to go on. Scott had been surprised by how readily Virgil acquiesced, but then he'd remembered how devastated his brother had been by having his hopes crushed multiple times already. Virgil's protective instincts ran deep, and he'd wanted to spare the rest of their family from the same kind of suffering in case history repeated itself. Besides, if John really had been taken by unknown hostile forces, then trying to find him might prove to be a dangerous endeavor.

Somehow, Scott didn't think Kayo would appreciate their reasoning.

"I think we can all guess about how well _that_ went," she was saying. "So I came out here myself to check on you, and I called the GDF on the way. They said they'd never gotten a signal from you, because the channel you were broadcasting over has been obsolete and out of service for over a year. So I suppose I shouldn't even have been surprised when I arrived to see the Hood's ship flying over the perfectly intact Thunderbird 1."

At the reminder of Thunderbird 1, Scott quickly glanced over to check on his ship. It had been far enough away from the edge to survive the crumbling ice, and apparently the Hood had decided to run rather than trying to steal it with his niece on the scene.

"You two are _unbelievably_ lucky that I spotted you before you fell, or I never would've caught you in time," Kayo went on, the anger in her voice more a thin cover for her residual fear than true ire. "And that you were falling together, or I only would've been able to save one of you. Can you imagine that, me having to decide which one of you to save? Which one of you I'd have to take back home to tell your family that they'd lost another member? And for what? Revenge? Do you _really think_ -?"

"Not revenge." Vigil's voice, though quiet, stopped Kayo mid-tirade. She frowned at him.

"What do you mean, 'not revenge?'"

Virgil met Scott's eyes, seeking agreement but not permission. He'd already decided to tell her the truth. And looking at the young woman who had become a sister to him, Scott knew that it was the right call. He nodded.

"Scott and I have been working under the assumption that the satellite accident wasn't an accident, and that someone used it as a trap for John. A trap meant to take him alive, not to kill him."

Whatever Kayo had been expecting, it wasn't that. She stared at them both, momentarily speechless.

"You think John is still alive?"

"It was a possibility we had to check into," Scott said. "But we don't have much evidence to go on, other than the fact that we haven't been able to find his body, and the explosion may have been sabotage by a company that doesn't exist. So we had to work off of whatever leads we could find."

"And that lead you to the Hood," said Kayo.

Scott nodded, and Kayo's scowl returned.

"Alan told me you two had taken it upon yourselves to be the family custodians," she said. "I suppose I just foolishly thought you wouldn't go out on your own on dangerous missions without even telling the person responsible for keeping you safe."

"Kayo-" Virgil tried.

"Don't start with me, Virgil Tracy," she said warningly, extending a finger towards him. "I might expect this kind of thing from Scott, but from you? I thought you understood the importance of being open with your family."

Scott wasn't sure he knew or liked what that was supposed to mean.

"We were trying to keep the rest of you safe-"

"That's _my_ job!" Kayo cried, tossing her hands in the air. "Literally! Especially when it's my uncle you're going tearing after, with no plan and less backup. Have I ever given you reason not to trust me?"

"Of course not Kayo, but-"

"No buts, Scott! Either you trust me or-"

"You're right," Virgil cut in. "Okay, Kayo? You're right, we should've told you. It wasn't that we didn't trust you, it was that we didn't want…we didn't want you getting hurt again."

Hurt like this, for example. Now that the adrenaline was fading, the brutal disappointment was setting in. Kayo seemed to sense their upset, and her anger diminished. She looked back and forth between them.

"What did the Hood say?" she asked, softly now, as if she knew the answer wasn't going to be good news.

"That he had nothing to do with what happened to John," Scott said.

"And you believe him?"

"I'm not saying that he wouldn't have done something like this, I just don't think he did this time. He wouldn't have been able to resist gloating about it."

"So what does that mean for John? Do you…" Kayo hesitated. "Boys, do you really think there's a chance? Or are you just letting yourselves believe that?"

Scott exchanged a look with Virgil. His brother's eyes were shadowed, his expression grim. They'd both seen the Hood as their most promising lead. But there were _so many_ signs that something was off. That couldn't be meaningless, could it?

"Well, you'd better figure it out, because Alan and Gordon are on their way," Kayo told them when neither said anything.

"Wait, what?" Scott exclaimed, turning back to her in a hurry. "I thought you came alone!"

"Did I mention that we intercepted your distress call?" Kayo demanded, some of her previous irritation returning. "When we couldn't find Virgil, we assumed he was out in the jungle somewhere taking time to himself, so Alan and Gordon took Thunderbird 2 out in his place. We thought you were in trouble, Scott, we weren't gonna wait! Not after-"

She cut herself off and looked away. Most of her anger had faded, but that was almost worse. Scott's gut turned to lead at the thought of his little brothers scared out of their minds that something had happened to him like it had to John, that they wouldn't be fast enough to save him either.

"I got here first because Thunderbird Shadow is faster than Thunderbird 2, but we left at the same time. They'll be here any minute, and you'll owe them an explanation."

"We'll give it to them," Virgil said at once.

He shot Scott a meaningful look, but Scott didn't need to be convinced. Kayo was right; they owed their brothers the truth. Scott just hoped it wouldn't be what finally destroyed them.

* * *

Alan's heart was in his throat for the entire flight to Antarctica. He couldn't get the sound of Scott's distress call out of his head, and concern for his big brother had his insides in a cold vice.

"What was he even doing out here in the first place?" he asked Gordon, whose knuckles were white on Thunderbird 2's controls. It wasn't the first time he'd raised the question. "It's not like we're running rescues."

"You know everything I do," Gordon replied tightly, not looking away from the vast shelf of ice looming on the horizon.

"But why wouldn't he at least tell us he was going out? And where-?"

"I don't _know_ , Alan!" Gordon snapped. "And I don't know why you think I would. I seem to be the last to know anything, lately."

Alan turned away, folding his arms over his stomach. Gordon's usual good humor had been a wavering shadow of its former self recently, but the threat to Scott seemed to have extinguished it entirely. Alan could relate, but that didn't mean he appreciated getting yelled at.

God, what kind of teenager had to deal with this kind of thing? How many other sixteen-year-old boys had to drop everything and race to goddamn _Antarctica_ because they were afraid of losing _another_ brother? How many had to fit schoolwork between dangerous missions to deep space or other planets or the depths of the earth because strangers would _literally die_ if they didn't? How many had personally stared down _multiple_ bombs, one of which had been deliberately set for them?

It had all seemed so exciting, once. Alan had pitied those other kids, the ones who spent all day cooped up in classrooms and would never get to fly spaceships or know what it was like to save another person's life. But that had been before.

 _"_ _Boys, it's me."_

Alan looked at once to the projection that had appeared over Thunderbird 2's console. There was something odd about Kayo's face, but she didn't look scared or worried, and something inside him relaxed. She wouldn't look like that if something had happened to Scott.

"Did you find him?" Gordon asked her.

 _"_ _Yeah, and he's fine. Virgil's with him."_

"Virgil?"

 _"_ _Virgil."_ Annoyance flickered across Kayo's features. _"I'll let them explain when you get here."_

"Won't be much longer," Gordon said. "We can see you guys now."

Alan sat up straighter and peered out the windshield. Sure enough, Thunderbird 1 was visible, standing out sharply against the gleaming backdrop of the glacier. If he squinted, he could make out the three figures standing beside it and Thunderbird Shadow. Just beyond them, the shelf of ice dropped off sharply, a few chunks still occasionally breaking off to plunge into the frothing sea below.

 _"_ _Just pick me up,"_ Virgil said. _"We should have this conversation somewhere a little more stable."_

So Gordon landed them carefully, and then tried to cede the pilot's seat to a shivering Virgil once he was back on board.

"Actually, I'm gonna need you to keep flying for a while," Virgil told him. "My suit's been compromised, and I need to change."

Alan looked more closely at him, but it wasn't his brother's suit that caught his attention.

"What happened to your _face_?" he demanded in horror.

Virgil grimaced and raised a hand to his cheek. His skin had been punctured by what looked like two dozen tiny metal barbs, producing an effect that made it look like he was literally sweating blood. More blood was dripping from his hair and down his neck, staining his collar.

"A very creative security system," he said. "Nothing a pair of tweezers won't fix."

He retreated toward the back of the cockpit, where the shower and tiny medical area were housed. Alan stared after him for a beat, and then hurried to unbuckle himself and follow.

"You don't think you're digging all of those out _yourself_ , do you?" he asked, snatching the medical kit from its spot before Virgil could try to grab it.

Virgil opened his mouth, and then closed it again with a sigh.

"Just give me a minute," he said. "There are more of these things stuck in my uniform, and if I sit down, this day is only gonna get worse."

So Alan stood by while his brother changed into a fresh suit, wincing as some of the barbs embedded in his old one tugged free of his skin. And then he sat, tilting his face up to provide access with the tweezers. One by one, Alan began to carefully remove each tiny metal shard, before swabbing the wounds with antiseptic and a cream that would promote skin repair.

Despite being the son of a doctor, he'd never much cared for medicine. It wasn't nearly as interesting as rockets and outer space. Still, for the first time since they'd lost John, he felt useful, like he was actually helping his family. It may have been a small thing, but it was something.

"You're lucky none of these things ended up in your eyes," he told Virgil as he moved on to the barbs in his brother's scalp. "I'm not sure you could pull off an eyepatch."

"Yeah, if anyone in this family gets to look like a pirate, it's me," Gordon called from the pilot seat, his spirits evidently improved somewhat by finding the others safe. "You okay back there?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine," Virgil called back, but he seemed distracted.

Even once Alan had removed all of the barbs and Virgil had finally reclaimed control of his Thunderbird, he seemed reluctant to look at either of his brothers as he checked his various gauges and instruments. It was an uncomfortable flight back to Tracy Island, and Alan wasn't entirely sure why. He shot a glance back at Gordon, but his brother just shrugged, evidently as nonplussed as he was. When they were all gathered in the main room with Grandma and Brains though, things became pretty clear.

"You're telling me you think John might still be alive, and you didn't say anything?" Gordon demanded once Scott had gotten most of the way through the explanation. He leapt to his feet, but had nowhere to go. With a face built for a mischievous smile, the hurt and anger that consumed his expression now looked wrong and out of place.

The argument that followed was loud and intense, but Alan barely heard any of it.

Could John really still be alive? Alan had been the first to suggest it, even in the moments after the explosion, but since then, every scrap of evidence had been to the contrary. His dreams had been haunted, not by visions of the explosion and its aftermath, but by the illusion that he'd gotten there in time, that he'd saved his brother, only to wake up and find that his greatest failure still weighed on him. It had become more painful to remain in denial.

But now…Could it be possible?

"Did _you_ know about this?" Gordon was asking Brains. The engineer looked profoundly uncomfortable.

"Well…yes," he admitted. "I w-was the one who found the inconsistencies with the debris. But I d-d-didn't know that Scott and Virgil would be going after the Hood without b-backup."

Because that was what they'd done, wasn't it? Not only had they kept their suspicions to themselves, they'd also put themselves at risk to follow up on a dangerous lead that their brothers could have helped with. It had been bad enough that they'd taken Alan's ship without asking to look for John's body, but he'd been able to look past that. But now they'd shut him out of the opportunity to actually _save_ John, could've gotten themselves _killed_ because of it, and that…that was unacceptable.

It had started slowly, but now Alan's hurt and frustration were boiling to the surface, fueled by a lifetime of being sidelined and overprotected. He surged to his feet as well.

"I'm sick of you guys treating me like I'm weaker than you!" he shouted. "Just because I'm younger doesn't mean I'm stupid, or useless! We _all_ lost John, and I have just as much right as any of you to try to get him back!"

"Nobody thinks you're stupid, Alan," Virgil said, in that infuriatingly calm voice of his.

"Then _ACT LIKE IT_!" Alan yelled, tears of anger and frustration starting to well in the corners of his eyes. He blinked them back furiously, hating them for undermining his point.

"All right, sweetheart." Grandma Tracy had been quiet up until that point, but now she rose and circled to him, putting an arm around his shoulders. She looked out at the rest of her grandsons, focusing on Scott and Virgil. "I understand you two thought you were doing the right thing, and I can't say it wasn't something your father would've done. But we are a _family_ , and we need to act like one, now more than ever. We need to trust each other, or we'll never get through this. All right?"

She met each of their gazes individually. Alan was still angry, and Gordon didn't look too thrilled either, but he could appreciate what Grandma had said. They all nodded.

"Now, let's not lose sight of what's most important here." She squeezed Alan's shoulders, and smiled at the rest of them. "Let's get our starman back."


	7. The Ripple Effect

_**A/N:** I can't say thank you enough to the lovely people who have been supporting this story. You guys are the best!_

* * *

It hadn't taken long for John to start flinching automatically whenever the cell door opened. Like Dad though, he'd taken to adopting an aloof mask whenever the guards came for him, not wanting anyone to know they were getting to him. Because they _were_ getting to him. It had only been a few days since Barrett's three-day ultimatum had come and gone, but those days…

He never complained though. Sometimes he couldn't muster up the energy to say anything at all after a session with Barrett's men, but he always did his best to offer Dad reassuring looks, to stay awake as long as he could, to regulate his breathing. Anything to put up a strong front that would make it easier for his father to keep resisting.

Dad _had_ to keep resisting.

John had never regretted his decision to join International Rescue. He'd loved the work he'd been doing before with NASA, and he missed it, but it had never made him feel essential, irreplaceable, like he was personally making a meaningful difference. He'd always known that a dozen other astronauts were waiting to replace him if he failed or quit, and the computer work he'd done was nothing a skilled team couldn't do without him. But when he joined International Rescue, he'd felt a sense of purpose that he'd never quite known before. He'd felt a connection, not just with his brothers, but with every single person who called for aid. He was their first point of contact, their beacon of hope, the one who told them help was on the way.

Much as John loved the work though, it had also cost him dearly. Perhaps not in the same way it had cost Scott, or Virgil, or Gordon, or Alan, for they'd all taken different paths and made different sacrifices, but dearly nonetheless.

John wasn't sure his brothers really understood everything that went into his job on Thunderbird 5. They knew he put in long hours and had to sort through an endless flood of incoming information for the few situations that truly needed International Rescue's specialized attention, knew he was essential for coordination and support. But they didn't appreciate, _couldn't_ appreciate, all the information that never made its way to them.

John didn't dispatch his brothers for lost causes. He'd send them to the one in a million chances, the how-the-hell-are-we-gonna-pull-this-one-off situations, even to tow jobs in the arctic. But when John knew, with the terrible certainty of a genius who'd overseen hundreds of emergency situations, that there was truly no possibility of a positive outcome, Tracy Island never got a call. He knew what the cost of mission failures could be, knew the kind of guilt they caused even if there was simply nothing that could've been done. He didn't do that to his family, not when he knew there was no chance.

But he didn't grant himself the same mercy. When people called him for help, when they had no one else to turn to, he answered, no matter what. And even when he made the impossible decision not to dispatch his brothers, he never abandoned them. He stayed on the line with them for as long as it took, made sure they knew they weren't alone. He listened to their fears, their stories, and shared his own in return. His was the last voice they ever heard.

Seven people, all told, had met such ends. John remembered them all, their names, the sound of their voices, their last words. And even though he believed he'd made the right choice in sparing his brothers the same burden, he still couldn't help wondering if he could have done something different, something more.

Seven souls weighed on his, and that was seven too many. He would rather face a hundred years of torture than have one more added to that list. And if he or his father broke, if they supplied Barrett with the technology, the _weaponry_ he was asking for, then there would be far more than one. John wouldn't let that happen.

So he willed himself to stay relaxed as three of the usual guards strode into the cell one morning. But they were accompanied by someone new this time, a woman in a white lab coat that looked out of place in this strange prison. She was wielding a syringe, and she approached John once the guards had grabbed him by the arms to immobilize him.

"Hey!" John shot a glance behind him to see Dad standing at the edge of the force field, wary eyes fixed on the needle that was poised over the crook of his arm. "What are you giving him?"

But it turned out they weren't giving him anything; they were taking.

John watched dark red blood gush into the waiting vial, a faint roaring in his ears. He'd never been particularly good with needles, something his twin had always teased him for. Virgil had loved going to the hospital with Mom, trailing behind her as she saw her patients. He'd always managed to leave smiles in his wake, and Mom had sworn up and down that the patients he visited had the best outcomes. John, on the other hand, had needed to be bribed with trips to the planetarium to even get him to his own doctor's appointments.

"What do you want with that?" John asked the woman as she pocketed the vial of blood and withdrew the needle from his arm. "Why do you need-?" he broke off with a gasp as one of the guards swung a kick at his ribs. He heard Dad shouting something, but he couldn't focus on the words for a long second.

By the time he could sit up again, the door had closed and Dad was kneeling at the edge of the force field. John sent him a bewildered look.

"I don't know," Dad said in answer to the unspoken question. "But they didn't take you today. Just focus on that."

John hoped it was that easy, but from what he'd been through, he couldn't help thinking that this was just the calm prelude to something even worse. Judging by the look of suppressed concern on Dad's face, he shared similar fears.

* * *

The atmosphere on Tracy Island had changed drastically since Scott and Virgil's little misadventure in Antarctica. While there were still some raw nerves as a result of the deceit, there was also an air of hope that had been so devastatingly absent after the explosion. None of the Tracy brothers dealt well with inaction, with aimless grief, but now that there was something they could _do_ , it made all the difference.

With all of them in the know, they were able to divide up tasks. Alan and Brains had been communicating with Eos, trying to help her piece together the mechanics of John's abduction from her observations that day and the evidence left behind. Kayo and Scott coordinated with the GDF, keeping them appraised of the situation and doing what they could to help the organization with its own investigation into the explosion. Virgil and Grandma pored over records of International Rescue's missions, looking for anything that might point to a motive for taking John.

Gordon did what he could to help with that, but he couldn't quite escape a feeling of uselessness. He was an action guy, the one who could turn a shitty situation around with a cocky grin and a flash of genius. He was the one who could make people laugh, put them at ease in the most stressful of situations. But he was no detective, and he wasn't built for an investigation like this. He wasn't suspicious by nature, didn't know how to look through years of reports for the few shady ones, how to look for potential enemies anywhere. He yearned for an objective that he could see, for something _real_ he could do to help John.

"What do you think's happening to him?" he couldn't help asking a few days into their search, when he and his brothers were all gathered in the main room.

The others had been absorbed in their own tasks, but they looked up at Gordon when he spoke. He shifted uncomfortably under the weight of their gazes.

"Just, if someone has him, then it must be for a reason," he said. "Do you…do you think he's hurt?"

There was a long pause. Alan had gone pale.

"Gordon," Scott said at last, his expression strange. "You might be onto something."

Gordon flinched.

"So you _do_ think-"

"Not about that, not him being hurt," Scott said quickly. "About there being a reason for the abduction. We've been trying to figure out who and how, but ever since we ruled out the Hood, we haven't been asking _why_. But maybe if we know that, we'll have a better idea of how to look for suspects."

"We know it's probably not for a ransom," Virgil said, sitting forward. "We would've gotten a demand by now. And if the idea had just been to hurt International Rescue, they would've just blown up Thunderbird 5 with John in it, instead of taking him. So they must've needed him for something."

"John is a world-class programmer," Scott said. "Before International Rescue, he was starting to build a reputation for himself. He still gets contacted every once in a while by people looking to hire him. Maybe someone didn't bother asking."

"In that case, he'd have access to a computer," Alan said, excitement sparking in his tone. "And even if he's being watched, he'd be able to figure out a way to send some kind of message, I know it. And who better to look for a hidden message in his programming than the most sophisticated program he ever created? I'll call Eos!"

Great. Something else Gordon couldn't help with.

Before Alan could contact the AI through the central communication system though, the holoprojector flashed with an incoming signal. For a second, Gordon wondered if Eos had been spying on them. When the projection resolved into the caller's image though, it was Colonel Casey.

"Evening," Scott greeted her. "We've just been discussing possible avenues of investigation. Has the GDF found anything new?"

Colonel Casey pursed her lips. She glanced around, taking in the number of people in the room.

 _"Scott…Perhaps it would be better if we talked alone."_

Gordon grimaced; he knew what that meant. He was starting to develop a better sense of empathy for Alan than he'd ever really wanted to. He wasn't used to being one of the excluded ones.

He sighed, moving to get to his feet. He'd hated fighting with his brothers earlier, and didn't have the will to mount another protest just then. But then Scott held out a hand in his direction, and frowned at the projected image of Colonel Casey.

"Whatever you have to say to me, you can say it to my brothers," he said. "We're done with secrets in this family."

Pleasantly surprised, Gordon glanced at Alan and settled back in his seat. He supposed Scott did learn after all. Painfully slowly, but he learned.

Colonel Casey surveyed them all in silence for a moment, and Gordon was afraid she was going to insist. But then she just sighed.

 _"All right,"_ she said. _"The GDF has a recovery team for foreign objects that fall from space. It's led to some major scientific discoveries, minimized pollution…"_ She trailed off, shaking her head. _"But that's not the point. Yesterday, the team recovered fragments of Stelair Satellite 2-1."_

"That was the satellite that John…" Alan didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't need to. Colonel Casey looked at him.

 _"Yes,"_ she said, her voice gentler than usual. _"Which the recovery team knew. I left instructions to contact me immediately if any part of it ever turned up. I ordered extensive testing. If a member of International Rescue was missing, I wanted him found, for any number of reasons. John was an incredible asset."_

"He's more than just an asset," Gordon snapped.

Colonel Casey turned her eyes on him.

 _"I know,"_ she said. _"And when the debris was found, I didn't want to get your hopes up until I got the results back on it."_

"And what _were_ the results?" Scott asked with a touch of impatience.

Colonel Casey looked at him, and suddenly each and every one of them knew it wasn't going to be good news. Alan paled and made a grab for Virgil's arm, but Gordon just went still.

 _"We found John's DNA, and part of his spacesuit. It had partially fused to-"_ she broke off, taking in their stricken faces. _"Well, it was obvious why you missed it during your searches. It may even have been thrown clear of the main debris field before you started your first search. But I'm afraid it's quite conclusive."_

Silence rang throughout the room for a long moment.

"If it was just his suit, that doesn't necessarily rule out the possibility of someone taking him," Scott said.

 _"Maybe not alone, but when I say that we found John's DNA with it, I mean we found…too much for him to live without."_

The others flinched, but Gordon was oddly numb to the words. Oh, he knew what they meant. The GDF hadn't just found John's suit, they'd found pieces of John himself. _Conclusive_.

Colonel Casey kept talking at them, probably explaining the details of their discovery and its implications, but Gordon had stopped listening. He stood, and without a word to his family, he turned and strode from the room, down the steps to the ground floor and then out of the villa to the thin path that led through the jungle toward the beach. If any of his brothers called out to him, he didn't hear. And by the time the villa was out of sight, he was running.

It was stupid, he knew, to try to run from this, but he didn't care. He needed to be a moving target, harder for the universe to hit.

He was breathing hard by the time he reached the beach. He barely slowed, pausing only to shed his shirt and shoes before plunging into the cool ocean. He didn't pause, didn't take his usual moment to revel in the feeling of the water welcoming him home. He just pushed through it, hauling himself forward in sweeping, powerful strokes that carried him quickly away from the island that had once felt like a sanctuary.

It shouldn't have felt like John had died all over again. It shouldn't have felt like a fresh loss, like yet another hole ripped in his family. But it _did_.

He strained harder against the water, pushing himself. Swimming had always helped him clear his mind, focus on nothing but the burn of his muscles, the rhythm of his breaths. The water was his escape, his safe haven. Had been since he was eight years old and reeling from his mother's death.

He'd been acting out at school, yelling at his teachers, eventually landing himself in the principal's office. But it hadn't been Dad who'd arrived to pick him up, it had been Scott. And instead of lecturing his little brother, he'd just buckled him in the car and driven him to the secluded lake a few miles from their childhood home. It was where Gordon had first learned to swim, where Mom had strapped water wings onto his tiny arms and drawn him out into the water with her, showing him how to kick and laughing when he just ended up splashing them both. Scott just pointed at the water and then waited on the shore for hours while Gordon swam and swam, burning off the anger and hurt until he was too exhausted to feel much of anything.

From that day on, swimming had been more than just a hobby for him. It had been his channel for the hurt, his way to find peace in a life that would never be the same. And even once he'd found a new equilibrium after Mom's death, once Grandma Tracy had moved in with them and Dad had pulled himself together, he'd kept training, kept pushing himself. Because he'd found something he loved that could never be taken from him, something he was better at than any of his brothers, something that made Dad's eyes glow with pride as Gordon began winning meet after meet.

And for years, it had been great. He'd won his first Olympic gold at the age of fifteen, claiming fame for himself that had nothing to do with being Jeff Tracy's son. His brothers had descended from the stands in a shouting mass, flinging themselves on him the moment he was out of the pool despite the fact that he was still dripping wet and on live TV. Even quiet, reserved John had been as excited as the rest of them, beaming and yelling and proud. The pile of Tracy boys had made the front page the next day, in a photo that Gordon still kept on his wall. It had been the happiest moment of his life, a moment when he had everything, including whatever future he could ever want for himself.

But that had all changed, hadn't it? The water had reminded him that it didn't play favorites, and in one terrible hydrofoil accident it stole from him so much of what it'd once given. And once he'd finally gotten out of the hospital, International Rescue had been waiting for him.

He'd managed to cope with losing his career, his autonomy, because he'd had his family, and a new mission. But that family had crumbled around him, and he'd been helpless to stop it. All of that training, all of that raw talent and skill, and he still hadn't been able to help the people most important to him.

Gordon pushed himself harder still now, trying to leave those thoughts behind him. Thoughts of John, of Dad, of failure and loss. He pushed and pushed, and slowly, blissfully, it began to work. He lost himself in the physical activity, let his familiar sanctuary reclaim him. It was an imperfect escape, for he could never be rid of the knowledge of what awaited him when he stopped, but who said he had to stop?

His body did, as it turned out. It wasn't until his arms began to cramp like he had never quite experienced before that he realized how long he'd been swimming. He was jolted back to the present, and he finally stopped, treading water with his legs alone as his lungs heaved and he clutched his arms to his chest, trying to massage the cramps from both of them at once with hands that weren't in much better shape. For a minute, he had to focus on simply breathing, providing oxygen to muscles that were demanding it with a vengeance.

Finally he looked up, only then realizing with a jolt how dark it had gotten. The moon was a faint sliver overhead, its light reflecting only dimly over the gentle chop of the water surrounding him. He spun around, squinting hard.

His stomach dropped. He could see Tracy Island in the distance. In the _very distant_ distance. He'd had no idea how far out he'd been going all this time. And he knew that as far away as Tracy Island looked, it was even more distant in reality.

"Well, shit."

His heart, already pounding from exertion, stuttered alarmingly. Instinct had him turning for home, forcing his exhausted limbs back into motion. Now that he was paying attention though, he was painfully aware of just how spent he was. Gordon swam every day, but he hadn't done endurance training in years, and he'd done nothing to prepare for this impromptu marathon. Each stroke felt like someone was trying to rip his arms off, and his body felt like it was made of lead.

It took less than half an hour of swimming towards the island for him to be confronted with the simple, certain truth: he didn't have it in him to make it back.

The realization should have had him reeling, panicking. _Something_. But instead he felt a unique calm settle over him. There was nothing he could do. Tracy Island was surrounded by protected waters; there would be no passing boats to hear any cries for help. He didn't have a scrap of technology on him, nothing for his brothers to track him with if they even noticed in time that he was missing.

He wasn't going to make it home.

He stopped moving abruptly, pulling in deep breaths. He stared at the dark shape of his home on the horizon, more than just his body aching. But he felt detached somehow, numb and distant. Nothing felt particularly urgent, or even real. It was a surprisingly peaceful feeling, liberating.

He stretched out on his back, letting himself float. Water flooded into his ears, dulling his hearing into a muted roar. The heavens stretched out above him, cold and vast and glittering, untainted by light pollution. Beautiful, Gordon supposed, in the cold, sterile way that marble statues and priceless jewelry were beautiful. Perhaps it was fitting that John had died up there though. He would've liked knowing that part of him would always be among the stars in which he'd made his home.

Gordon wasn't sure how long he floated there, thinking about nothing and everything. His eyes drifted shut eventually, his body rocked by the gentle ocean swells. It was so peaceful, and he was so very _tired_ , physically and emotionally. Too tired to care when he felt himself sink below the surface, the water closing over him as he drifted down, down…

But then his diaphragm contracted, his lungs expanded, and he was breathing in water. He choked, reality crashing back to him in an icy rush. Fear kicked in at last, sharp and consuming. His eyes snapped open, but everything was black and suffocating. He began to struggle weakly for what he hoped was the surface, but his lungs were on fire, sapping his strength and his focus. His heart raced, thundering in his ears as it tried to pump oxygen that simply wasn't available. The water felt thick as gelatin around him, his arms and legs too weak to cut through it.

But then something moved above him, and slender fingers were grasping at his shoulders, sliding uselessly over his bare skin for a moment. An arm wrapped around his chest, and then they were rising at last. Gordon's lungs were burning, white spots flashing in his darkening vision, but he still tried to help, kicking his legs.

And then finally, his head broke the surface. He gagged and coughed, his body doing its best to expel the water he'd inhaled and replace it with something more useful. So focused was he on breathing that he didn't even notice that he was still being towed through the water, until he wasn't anymore. Instead he was being hauled onto the tiny deck of a jet ski, the small vehicle bobbing with the movement.

Gordon couldn't find the strength to lift his head, or really do much besides lie there with his legs still dangling in the water. Cold hands cupped his face, and he found himself meeting a pair of anxious blue eyes. He blinked up at Alan, whose shoulders sagged with relief.

"How the hell…?" Gordon croaked.

"Eos."

Of course. The AI had access to some of the best monitoring technology in the world. It would've been a simple matter for her to detect his heat signature.

Before Gordon had collected enough breath for a response, Alan's expression shifted, closed off. He sat back, slicking his dripping hair back from his face. He pulled off his soaked T-shirt and wrung it out, grimacing. It was hard to tell in the dark, but he appeared to be wearing pajamas.

"If I'd known you were gonna try to drown yourself, I would've brought Thunderbird 4," he said, his voice flat. "Would've kept me drier."

Gordon flinched.

"I wasn't trying to drown myself," he said honestly.

"Really? Then do you want to explain to me how an Olympic swimmer ends up halfway to the bottom of the ocean?"

"I went too far out and couldn't make it back."

Alan's mouth was a hard line. He shook his head.

"Whatever, Gordon."

Alan climbed onto the seat and looked down at his brother, still flopped on the deck with the water lapping at his body.

"You planning on riding back to the island down there?"

"Al…I don't think I can get up."

Every muscle felt like it was on fire, and any movement simply stoked the blaze. A shudder rippled through him painfully, and he grit his teeth, his eyes stinging. Alan's expression changed.

"Geez, Gordy, hang on," he muttered, spinning around on the seat and reaching down to grab his brother under the armpits. "All right, I've got you. On three. One, two…"

Gordon tried to help, he really did, but his legs felt like burning rubber, and Alan ended up doing most of the work. It was uncoordinated and undignified, but they finally managed to get Gordon sitting upright behind him. The upshot was that the by the end of it, Alan seemed to actually believe that Gordon hadn't been physically capable of keeping himself afloat.

"Just let me know if you start to lose your grip," he told Gordon over his shoulder as he took the jet ski's controls.

Gordon just nodded, utterly spent. He managed to hang onto his brother for the duration of the ride back to the island, although a few of the waves came close to dislodging him. The sky was lightening with the lavender glow of dawn by the time they docked in the rocky sea cavern that served as their boatshed, and Gordon realized just how long he must have been swimming. Alan helped him to his feet, and when it became clear that walking unassisted wasn't going to happen, he ducked under Gordon's arm, taking some of his weight.

"Do you need Virgil to check you over?" he asked as they made their slow way back to the villa.

"God, no," Gordon said at once. "Alan, he and Scott don't need to know about this."

Alan scowled at him. The effect was somewhat diminished by the fact that his drying hair was sticking up in unruly tufts like a baby cow's.

"Gordon, you almost-"

"I know what almost happened!" Gordon snapped. "But it was an accident, all right? I just- I needed to get _away_ , for a little while, and I didn't realize how far I'd gotten until it was _too_ far."

Alan looked like he was going to argue further, but then he just shook his head. They both knew how Scott would react to hearing about the incident, and no matter how annoyed he might have been, Alan apparently wasn't ready to subject Gordon to that.

They walked without speaking for several paces.

"What's happening to us?" Alan asked, so softly that Gordon was fairly certain he hadn't been meant to hear it. His throat tightened.

"I'm sorry," Gordon replied, almost as quiet. He'd never meant to put one more burden on his little brother's shoulders.

They were both silent for another moment. In that time, Alan must have decided to forgive his brother.

"If you think you're sorry now, wait till tomorrow," he said, deliberate lightness in his tone now. "You're gonna feel like you got hit by a bus."

"Oh believe me, I already do."

"Then you're gonna feel like you got hit by a planet."

"Can planets even hit people? I feel like at that point, it'd be the person hitting the planet."

"Not if the planet's the thing that's moving."

"But what if they're _both_ moving?"

The meaningless debate carried them back to the house and up to Gordon's bedroom. Alan deposited his brother on the bed, and Gordon flopped down onto his pillows like a limp noodle, not caring that his shorts were still damp. He couldn't remember a time in his life when he'd felt this exhausted.

"I'll be back in a minute," Alan said. He raised an eyebrow "Don't go anywhere."

The little shit was gone before Gordon could come up with a sufficiently biting retort. Gordon sighed, settling more comfortably into the massive nest of pillows and stuffed animals he liked to sleep in, despite the occasional teasing it earned him. He let his eyes close, but it made him feel like he was still being tugged around by ocean currents, so he opened them again with a grimace.

He looked around the familiar mess of his room. There was his shelf stacked haphazardly with real paper books, collected because of the antiquated love of the printed word which half of Lucille Tracy's children had inherited from her and the other half utterly failed to comprehend or appreciate. There was the 40-gallon tank housing the school of luminous mechanical fish that Dad had asked Brains to create to keep the dark at bay when Gordon started having nightmares after his hydrofoil accident. There was the shelf of swimming trophies and medals that were in serious need of dusting, relics of a different time.

It wasn't long before his gaze settled on one of the pictures adorning his wall. There they were, the Tracy five, captured in a moment of sheer joy as they celebrated Gordon's Olympic victory. His brothers were all decked out in the embarrassing _GO GORDON!_ T-shirts that Scott and Virgil had made for the occasion, while Gordon himself wore nothing but his star-spangled Team USA Speedo. Not that much of it could be seen under the heap of bodies on top of him.

They'd been invincible then, a team of their own. United against the world, untouchable and unstoppable.

Gordon found himself focusing on John, whose eyes were sparkling with pride as he cheered for his little brother.

"You know, sometimes I felt like I barely knew him?" he said softly a few minutes later, when Alan returned with a sports drink and a handful of protein bars.

Alan blinked, apparently startled.

"What do you mean?" he asked. He followed Gordon's line of sight to the photo. " _John_? Of course you knew him."

But Gordon just shook his head.

"Not like you did. Or Virgil or Scott. We just never really…clicked, I guess. Like, we were headed in different directions growing up, and then suddenly we were these people who worked together. And we got along fine, but we never had that…that connection he seemed to have with the rest of you."

He made a face at Alan.

"You know, I was talking to him when that rescue call came in. Just- just shooting the breeze, talking about _nothing_. I think I was complaining about my feet hurting. _That_ was the last conversation I had with him."

Alan's blue eyes were magnified behind a film of tears now, but he didn't let them fall. He just crossed his arms, drawing closer to Gordon.

"And what exactly do you think he and I talked about on a regular basis, the meaning of life?" he demanded. "The last thing I did was tease him about ghosts. _Ghosts_ , Gordon, can you believe that?"

Gordon stared at his brother for a moment. And then he snorted.

"That is absolutely fucking ridiculous," he said, covering his face with his hands.

"Isn't it?" Alan agreed, dropping onto the bed beside Gordon with a huff. "He's probably gonna come back and haunt Thunderbird 5 just to make a point."

He flopped backwards, sprawling over Gordon's legs. Both boys stared at the ceiling in silence for a while.

"What was his favorite food?" Alan asked abruptly.

Gordon didn't have to think about it.

"Cheeseburgers or bagels, depending on the time of day."

"Favorite color?"

"Lilac, but he thought it looked weird with his hair so he never wore it."

"What song drove him up the wall?"

" _Defying Gravity_ , but only because Virgil and I rigged the intercom in his room to play it at random times for like two months after he got accepted to NASA."

"What movie did he know all the lines to?"

" _The Voyage Home_."

"And who was always willing to watch it with him, even after everyone else had gotten sick of it?"

"…Me."

"And who did he dedicate his second textbook to, the one about the science and implications of extra-terrestrial water?"

"Also me."

"Because who spent hours and hours helping with his research and throwing Skittles at him to distract him when he started getting frustrated?"

"Okay, you can't prove that last part-"

" _You_ ," Alan said, and there was a trace of a smile in his voice. "You knew him, Gordon. And he knew you. He knew you cared about him."

Gordon's eyes burned. That was what had really been bothering him, wasn't it? The fear that his brother hadn't known he was _loved_ , fiercely and wholly.

"Yeah?" he whispered.

Alan rolled his eyes and nudged Gordon's side with his bony elbow.

"Of course, you idiot. He was your big brother."

A fist tightened around Gordon's throat, and the tears that had been blurring his eyes finally began to spill over. He let them fall for a minute or two, but then wiped them away with the back of his hand and propped himself up on his elbows to look at Alan.

"When did you get so wise?" he mused.

Alan sniffed. It was probably supposed to seem like a dramatic effect, but it sounded a little to full to be feigned.

"I'll have you know that I've always been this wise; you guys just fail to appreciate me."

"Yeah, says the guy who thinks that killer whales are actually whales."

Alan threw his hands in the air.

"Okay, it's right there in the name! Why would you call it a whale if it's not a goddamn whale?"

"I don't know, maybe because 'killer dolphin' didn't sound badass enough?"

"Hey, I'd be terrified of a killer dolphin. Because if you've pissed off a _dolphin_ bad enough that it wants to kill you, you know it's not quitting till you're dead and everything you love is on fire."

Well, it was hard to argue with that logic. Of course, Gordon still didn't intend to let that stop him, but when he opened his mouth to issue a retort, he ended up yawning so widely he felt his jaw pop.

"I'll leave you to get some sleep," Alan said, standing. "If I stay in here any longer, I'm gonna need a hazmat suit."

"It's not _that_ messy in here," Gordon protested. Alan looked pointedly at a half-drunk mug of tea that had several colonies of bacteria growing in it. "That's, uh, for science."

Alan just rolled his eyes.

"Well, I wouldn't want to stand in the way of _science_ ," he said. "You just go ahead and let me know when you get published in _Nature_. Until then, I'm out of here."

He uncapped the bottle he'd brought and handed it to Gordon, and then began to retreat.

"Hey." Gordon's call made Alan pause in the doorway and look back. "I never thanked you. For coming to get me."

Alan was silent for a moment, sobering. He frowned at the doorframe.

"Scott and Virgil told me you'd come back on your own," he said. "They said it was how you coped sometimes, by running, and that I should let you get it out of your system. I almost listened to them."

There really wasn't much to say to that, was there?

"I'm glad you didn't," Gordon finally offered. Alan looked at him.

"I'm glad you're glad," he said. "Because I can't do this again, Gordon. I really, really can't."

Gordon swallowed hard against the flash of guilt that hit him. He met his little brother's gaze steadily.

"You won't have to," he promised.

Alan stared back at him for a minute, before nodding.

"Good."

He left, but about two seconds after the door had closed behind him, it was opening again. Gordon stared in confusion as Alan marched towards him. His little brother began rummaging through the mounds of pillows and stuffed animals, until he finally extracted one and thrust it at Gordon.

"Didn't know him, my ass," he muttered under his breath as he turned and marched back to the door. "Drama queen."

The door shut behind him with a definitive click.

Gordon blinked bemusedly at the stuffed animal in his hands. It was a blue squid, its anatomically unlikely fur soft and worn with age. A baseball-sized lump appeared in Gordon's throat, but he smiled. Squiddy was an old friend of his, won for him years ago in a little restaurant arcade in Kansas. He remembered splaying his tiny hands against the glass of the claw machine, holding his breath as he watched John guiding the joystick with the utmost care, expression twisted in concentration as if winning a two dollar toy for his little brother were the most important thing he'd ever done.

With the reminder of John clutched securely to his chest, Gordon finally allowed himself to stop running, to close his eyes and simply _miss_ his brother. And it hurt, a lot, but it was a cathartic kind of hurt, far more so than swimming had been.

* * *

While Alan was fishing his brother out of the ocean, Scott was staring at the door to Virgil's studio, locked in an internal debate. He'd been intending to give Virgil space after the impossible conversation they'd had with Grandma and Kayo and Brains, sharing Colonel Casey's grim news, but as he'd been passing the studio, a clattering crash had caught his attention. Now, as the sounds of destruction continued, he was debating the relative merits of leaving Virgil to work through this new loss in peace versus acting on the hope that he would actually be allowed to help this time.

It was when the noise stopped altogether and was replaced by unsettling silence that Scott could no longer restrain himself. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The studio was normally one of his favorite places to visit on the island. High-ceilinged and airy, it had been built directly into the mountain, so the back wall was rough-hewn rock and the front was nothing but windows overlooking the jungle. It was usually a place of light and peace, where Virgil went to clear his head and any of the others were welcome so long as they agreed to be quiet.

It didn't appear to have brought Virgil much peace this time though. Easels were overturned, cans of paintbrushes and sticks of charcoal had been scattered across the floor, palates of paint had been flung here and there. It was a display of the kind of loss of control that Virgil so rarely fell victim to.

Scott looked around the ruined workshop, feeling his heart break just a little bit more.

"Oh, Virgil," he murmured.

His brother looked up at him from where he was sitting in the middle of a swath of destruction. Paint flecked his cheeks, streaked his hair. There was a loud splash of red across his shirt that made Scott's gut curl even though he knew intellectually that it was nothing but acrylic.

"I don't know how the hell I keep managing to get my hopes up," Virgil said. "I didn't think I was this stupid."

Guilt punched Scott in the gut. He'd been the one to push this, to get his brothers hoping for a miracle. He may not have been responsible for what happened to John, but this new grief was on him.

And yet, even with the way things turned out, he knew that he couldn't have lived with himself if he hadn't tried. So even though he felt like he'd been sucker-punched, he couldn't regret what they'd done. It meant he had some serious damage control to do now though.

"Hope isn't stupid, bro," he said, stepping over shreds of ruined canvasses and crouching down beside his brother. He prayed he wasn't about to make things worse. Virgil had always been better at this kind of thing. "It's what keeps us going. Without it, we wouldn't be able to do what we do."

"And what _is_ it that we do, Scott?" Virgil demanded. "I mean what, _exactly_ , did John die for?"

Scott blinked, and gave the automatic answer. "We save people."

"Yeah. We move heaven and earth to save a few, while thousands of others die from disease and hunger and crime. I sure feel useful, don't you?"

Scott stared at his brother, stunned. He realized with a lurch that he was looking at a Virgil without optimism. It was a foreign sight, more so than he could have realized, and it left him with an icy pit in his stomach. He swallowed hard and settled a hand on Virgil's knee.

"You remember that story Dad used to tell, about the starfish on the beach?" he asked.

Virgil sighed.

"Sure. Thousands and thousands of starfish got stranded by low tide, and a little kid started picking them up and throwing them back in the ocean one by one. And when someone told him that there were too many for him to make a difference, he just threw another in and said 'it made a difference to that one.' And I know where you're going with this, Scott, but-"

"But you're right, sometimes it doesn't feel like enough," Scott allowed. "I get that, really. But you know what we do, Virgil? We save other families from _this_." He gestured between them to encompass the grief that was crushing them. "Maybe not all of them - maybe not even _most_ \- but we make a difference to them, and I have to believe that's worth it."

He paused, sighed. Pain was still etched on Virgil's face, and it cut into him.

"I don't know how to make this better, Virg," he admitted, his voice little more than a whisper. "But I need you, okay? We all do. You're our rock, you know. If you go off the rails, we're all coming with you."

Virgil bowed his head, curling in on himself. Scott watched dark spots appear on the drop cloth below him as tears struck it.

"I know," he murmured, his voice thick. "I know, I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry." Scott inched closer and wrapped his arm around Virgil. He let his cheek settle on his little brother's soft hair, and just held him tight. "Don't be sorry."

They sat like that for a long while, processing this new grief, learning the weight of it, this pain they would spend the rest of their lives carrying. Finally Scott held Virgil tighter for just a moment before letting him go and getting to his feet.

"Come on," he said, reaching a hand down to his brother. "Let's get this place cleaned up."

They worked in silence for several minutes. Scott was grateful to find that most of Virgil's canvases had been covered, shielding them from the paintstorm. The windows hadn't been quite so lucky, but that was an easier fix.

"I just keep thinking, you know, about how much this job has taken from us."

Scott looked over to see Virgil staring down at a canvas in his hands. It was one of the smaller ones in the studio, and from the style, Scott would guess that it was one of his earlier works. The subject matter wasn't something that he'd expect to evoke a particularly strong response, just a bushy-tailed squirrel perched on a picnic table and gnawing on a half-eaten cupcake with a candle in it.

Virgil looked up from it to meet his brother's gaze.

"Not just John and Dad," he said. "I mean, does it ever _get_ to you, Scott?"

There was no need to ask what he meant.

Scott had known that he would one day take his place in the organization he was helping his father to create. He'd allowed himself a short Air Force career, a few girlfriends, an idle daydream or two, but he hadn't let himself get attached to any of it.

But Virgil hadn't appreciated the reality of International Rescue quite so fully. He'd been starting to build a life for himself, had been thinking about a future that didn't include life on a secluded island with no one but his family for company. He'd answered Dad's summons when it came, but it had involved sacrifice he hadn't quite been prepared for.

"I called Akil the night John died, after you and I got back from looking for his body," Virgil said quietly, his gaze dropping back to the painting. "Just…I guess I don't know why, exactly. It was the first time in years, but I think I needed someone who wasn't a part of all this."

Scott sighed. He'd liked Akil, Virgil's college boyfriend. The young man had been whip-smart and kind-hearted, pursuing a degree in public health. Virgil had always seemed so _content_ around him, quicker to smile or laugh. They'd been in love, real love, Scott thought, although he didn't think he'd ever experienced that for himself. Dad would never have done anything like ask Virgil to break up with his boyfriend once International Rescue was up and running, but it didn't take a genius to figure out that there wasn't much of a future for a relationship in which one of the involved parties lived on an island in the middle of nowhere and the other wanted to run a medical clinic.

"How is he?" Scott asked.

"Happy." Virgil set the canvas aside with a sigh, avoiding Scott's gaze. "Married."

"Ah." Scott wished he could think of something more helpful to say. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's what he deserves. And he was still really good to me; he listened and then just rambled on about nothing when he could tell I just needed a friendly voice, even though it'd been years since we'd spoken. But I just…he has this life now, and that's something I'd wanted to be a part of, but somehow I ended up here, and it's like I've got everyone else's life _but_ my own…" He shook his head. "I'm not explaining this well."

Maybe not, but he didn't have to. Scott may not have walked away from the love of his life, but he did know how daunting, how exhausting it was to be part of a team that watched over the entire world, always on call. It was a precious duty, one that Scott knew Virgil treasured, but it was also one that could be crushing, suffocating at times.

And Scott had just dumped responsibility for the rest of them onto his shoulders.

He sighed and set aside the rag he'd been using to wipe paint from the windows. He went to his brother's side and rested a hand on his back.

"Virgil…" Scott took a deep breath, his eyes stinging. "If you want to leave-"

"No! No, I…" Virgil groaned and dropped his head into his hands, tightening his fingers in his dark hair. "I don't. I swear I don't, Scott. You were right, about what we do being important, and I'd never abandon the rest of you. I just wish…"

"You wish you didn't feel like you _have_ to stay," Scott surmised. Virgil gave him a startled look, and he smiled wryly. "Hey, don't think I haven't been there. When Mom died, Dad kind of lost the plot for a while. And suddenly, it was like I was all you guys had, and you were relying on me for so much and I was barely holding it together myself and I had no clue what I was doing, half the time. It felt like the weight of the world was on my shoulders, and some days, it nearly crushed me. I never wanted that for you."

Virgil was silent for a moment. He and Scott studied each other.

"You shouldn't have had to deal with that either," Virgil said at last.

Scott shrugged.

"And Mom shouldn't have died, and hurricanes shouldn't happen, and sugar shouldn't be bad for you. It's life, Virgil, and it sucks sometimes. But I've never regretted looking after you guys. You gave me something to be proud of."

They'd given him more than that, but this conversation had already gotten sappy enough. At last, Virgil smiled. It was small and sad, but genuine.

"We were lucky to have you, Scott. Really."

Scott considered a number of possible responses to that. Looking at Virgil though, he knew that they'd both already said what they needed to. So he adopted a long-suffering look, propping himself up against his brother and wiping imaginary sweat from his brow.

"Don't I know it."

* * *

 _ **A/N:** I swear I never meant for this chapter to get so monstrously long. Gordon just turned out to have a lot more feelings than I was expecting, and then of course Virgil had to go and break down, and then we were 8k into this thing._

 _The stories of Squiddy and the brothers celebrating Gordon's Olympic victory were inspired by artwork of lenle-g's over on tumblr, which you should check out because it's amazing._


	8. Echoes of Goodbye

Jeff had always loved his sons fiercely and equally. When you were raising five children on your own though, it could be hard to find the time to spend really getting to know them as well as you liked. Especially as they all grew and changed, boys turning into men.

John had always been an especially tough case. He was a listener, the one to sit quietly in a group while the others talked, only speaking when he felt he had something important to say. As a child, he'd been withdrawn, often with his nose in a book and his head far above the clouds. Jeff and Lucy had usually been able to reach him there though, figuring out how to speak the same language. They'd taken him on trips to the science center and planetarium and bookstore, bought him a telescope and sat outside with him as he got to know the heavens they both already loved, delighting in the way John's own private world would open up to include them.

But after Lucy died…maybe Jeff had stopped working to reach John. For while Alan had turned out to be the most like Lucy in temperament, with her boundless enthusiasm for life, her shamelessly goofy sense of humor, her indomitable spirit, it was John who'd inherited her looks. He had his mother's fiery hair, her piercing eyes that could never decide whether they were blue or green, her willowy frame, her _smile_. With each year that went by, he'd come to resemble her more. For a long time, far too long a time, it had hurt to look at him.

John had always been more sensitive than people gave him credit for. He _knew_. Neither he nor Jeff said anything about it, but it wasn't long before John started to withdraw further than ever before, shutting himself away physically and mentally, throwing himself into facts and science and paper worlds. And Jeff, God help him, had just _let_ him.

By the time he'd gotten his act together, looked up from his own grief long enough to notice the damage he was doing (a revelation helped along by Scott flat-out _yelling_ at him for the first and only time in his life), John had retreated into a shell that Jeff didn't know how to breach. It hadn't been long before John was headed off to Harvard, the youngest in his class by far. A tremendous honor, yes, but yet another isolation.

But Jeff had started trying again. It had taken time and effort, but he'd begun to break through. He'd called John every weekend even though the conversations had often been awkward and stilted, established a branch of Tracy Industries in Boston so that he had an excuse to visit every few months, donated generously to Harvard's physics and astronomy department so that John would always have access to the best equipment for his studies. When it became clear that John had his heart set on following his father to NASA, Jeff had guided him through the application process, although John had insisted that he not pull any strings.

Privately though, Jeff had been a little worried about him making it through NASA's rigorous training. John was brilliant and capable, but no one had ever accused him of being particularly tough. But John had revealed a steel spine, and he hadn't just made it through, he'd excelled. He'd turned out to thrive under pressure, doing his best work at the point where most others started getting overwhelmed. He'd shot up through NASA's ranks on his own merit, not his father's legacy, and he'd gone on to become the youngest astronaut to be placed in command of a mission.

After all that, Jeff thought he'd sufficiently corrected his impression of his middle son, had gotten to know and understand the young man his quiet little boy had become. He'd designed Thunderbird 5 and John's role on it accordingly, and had instituted nightly check-ins with the space monitor, determined not to let him drift away again.

If the last three weeks had shown him anything though, it was that he'd underestimated his son once again. He watched in pained awe every day as John was brought back to him, wrecked and drained and hurting, only to don a brave smile, or tell a story from the time that Jeff had missed (although Jeff still wasn't entirely sure he believed the one about Gordon and Alan discovering alien life on reality TV). He was facing the impossible, the unbearable, and he was holding his own; better even than his father perhaps, who felt as if each day tore a fresh piece of him away, opened up a new wound inside him.

It was the cruelest twist of irony: Jeff finally had all the time he could possibly need to get to know John, and this had been the cost.

* * *

Alan wasn't quite sure what he was doing at Dad's desk. There was nothing waiting for him here, none of the steady reassurance, the gentle teasing, the fond warmth that he'd always found in Dad himself. He just knew that his family seemed to be cracking apart, and he didn't know what to _do_.

It had been two days now, since Colonel Casey's devastating call. Gordon had spent most of that time in his room, recovering from his aquatic ordeal. ("Forget about getting hit by a planet," he'd groaned when Alan went to check on him the next day. "I feel like I got hit by an entire solar system.") In contrast, Virgil had been almost overwhelmingly present after the first night, as if trying to bury his grief by being there for the rest of the family. Scott seemed to be doing his best to act normally, putting on a brave face for the others, but he wasn't fooling anyone. Kayo had taken to spending more time on perimeter patrol around the island, and Brains rarely surfaced from his workshop. Even Grandma Tracy's spirit seemed to be wavering.

They were trying, everyone was _trying_ , but that would never change the fact that an unimaginable loss had altered their lives forever. Again.

Alan ran his index finger over the dark surface of his father's desk. He'd thought Dad was nigh on invincible, once. He'd always seemed so strong, so confident. He was the one with the answers, the game plan, the words of encouragement on the hard days. And he'd still been taken from them in a single horrible instant, without so much as a word of warning or goodbye.

As he sat there, Alan found his eyes drawn once again to the row of portraits ringing the wall of the lounge. To be perfectly honest, Alan had always found the pictures to be a little creepy. His brothers kept a sharp enough eye on him as it was; he didn't need all four of them, plus Kayo, staring at him, larger than life, whenever he was in the living room. It made napping a thoroughly unsettling affair. Of course, that hadn't stopped his chest from puffing up with pride when his own picture joined the array.

Looking at it now, though, he couldn't help noticing how much younger than his brothers he looked; a pretender in the uniform he wore so proudly. Not like the others beside him. Not like John.

 _It should've been me._

The words had been bubbling up inside him for weeks, insistent and growing. He hadn't been aware of them first, too caught up in his shock and grief, but they'd crept up on him slowly, unconsciously, until quite suddenly they were all he could think about. It should've been him, rushing to the aid of that satellite. It should've-

The comm unit on the desk let out a shrill, persistent beep, and Alan jumped out of the chair, as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't have. Flustered, he automatically waved a hand to accept the incoming call.

 _"Hello, is this Jeff Tracy?"_

Despite the years that had passed since Dad's death, the question still made Alan wince. There had been no public announcement about the incident, as none of them had been quite ready to take that final step in acknowledging the impossibility of their father's return. Instead, they'd put out a quiet announcement that Jeff Tracy was retiring, and management of his company would be overtaken by his eldest son. It meant that every once in a while, they had to field questions like this about him, and it hurt every time.

"This is his son, Alan," he said. "What's this about?"

 _"Alan? You're the youngest kid, right?"_ The male voice didn't give him time to answer. _"Alan, is it true that your brother John is dead?"_

Alan froze, his body going numb. He sat down heavily in Dad's chair.

"What?" he heard himself ask, breathless.

 _"There are reports that John Tracy was recently killed; can you confirm that? How are you and your family coping?"_

"I- I don't-"

 _"Was your brother's death an accident, or was there foul play? Is your father seeking vengeance for his son's murder? Do authorities suspect the same people who kidnapped John when he was a child?"_

The rapid-fire questions hit Alan like blows, giving him no time to think in between.

"Wait, I- murder? That's-"

"Who is this?"

Alan jumped violently at the sound of the new voice. But it was just Scott, standing behind his chair now and giving the comm a murderous look. One of his large hands settled protectively on Alan's shoulder.

 _"Lee Heinz, of the_ Afternoon Globe. _Is-?"_

"Mr. Heinz, this is Scott Tracy. I want you to listen to me very carefully. If and when my family ever has news to share with the public, we will be the ones to reach out, and believe me when I say that it will never be to the _Afternoon Globe_. Now, if you ever call this number or otherwise try to make contact with my family, I will have you arrested for harassment. Are we clear?" Scott didn't wait for Heinz to answer. He just jabbed a finger into the end call button with decisive force.

Ringing silence prevailed for a moment as Scott braced himself against the edge of Dad's desk, his head bowing. Alan could see the veins standing out on the backs of his hands, the tension in his shoulders. But after a second, Scott let out a heavy breath and turned to Alan, his expression shifting from anger to concern.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice gentle now.

"I…I don't know."

Alan wasn't an idiot. He knew that his family had been famous before International Rescue. Jeff Tracy had been a well-known and beloved astronaut for years, a public hero, and had gone on to found a multi-billion dollar technology company. Lucille Tracy had been a brilliant cardiothoracic surgeon, known for pulling off the kinds of operations that most other doctors were too scared to even attempt. The media loved them, especially when they began producing bright, charming kids.

It hadn't been without its consequences. In the early years, Alan had been raised to constantly be cautious of others, to question motives and learn quickly how to spot those who just wanted a brush with money and fame. None of that caution had been unfounded, he knew. Virgil and John had been kidnapped when they were just six years old, held for a ten million dollar ransom by perpetrators that had never been caught. Only a well-placed kick and a scream that could've woken the dead had saved Gordon from a similar fate a few years later.

Even when it wasn't quite so dangerous, the Tracy family fame had permeated their lives. When Virgil came out publicly, paparazzi set up camp at the edge of their property and hounded the rest of the family for a month. When Scott got run off the road on his motorcycle by a drunk driver, Dad found out about it on the news. When John got into Harvard, one news outlet actually brought in a panel to discuss whether it was on his own merit or because of Dad's influence.

But Dad had moved them to Tracy Island when Alan was eight, and he'd been relatively sheltered from the media since then. He hadn't had to be constantly looking over his shoulder for paparazzi, hadn't been followed after school for a soundbite or a candid shot.

He hadn't been prepared for an ambush.

"I'm sorry you had to take that," Scott told him now, spinning his chair away from the desk so that Alan was facing him properly. "That man should never have been able to get hold of Dad's number, but reporters are tenacious."

"But how did he know about…about John?" Alan asked.

Scott's expression hardened again.

"It probably means there's a leak at the GDF," he said. "They're the only other ones besides Lady Penelope and Parker who know about what happened. Well, except for-" he cut himself off, shaking his head. "No, it has to be the GDF."

"What about the Hood?" Alan suggested, deep-rooted hatred surging to the surface. "He knows about John too, and he'd love to make us miserable."

Guilt flickered in Scott's eyes for a moment, but then he shook his head again.

"The Hood doesn't know for sure that John is…is dead. Only the GDF does. I'll take care of it."

He stood back to let Alan get up, but Alan just frowned up at him, replaying the conversation with the reporter in his head.

"He asked me if someone did this," he said. "I know we haven't really talked about it since…but do you think it's possible?"

Scott frowned, his expression becoming hard to read.

"Colonel Casey said that all evidence points to it being an accident," he said at last.

Yeah, Alan had been listening to that conversation, the one that Gordon had bailed on so prematurely. Colonel Casey had told them about the second set of remains that had been found, what was left of the astronaut that John had been trying to save in the first place. She'd told them about the lack of any indication of foul play, citing damage to oxygen lines and electrical systems as the source of the explosion. And yet…

"But what about Stelair?" Alan asked. "We still haven't been able to find-"

"I know," Scott interrupted. "I've been thinking the same thing. But the truth is…the truth is that even if this wasn't an accident, it's not our job to deal with it anymore. That's for the GDF."

Alan gaped at Scott, incredulous.

"So, what, now that John's officially dead, he's not our problem anymore?" he demanded. Scott winced, but Alan couldn't bring himself to regret the harsh words.

"That's not what I meant," he said. "We're not cops, Alan. I've had this conversation with Kayo more than once, but I didn't follow my own advice when we thought John was missing. I almost got Virgil _killed_ going after the Hood, trying to find someone to blame. I don't want anything like that happening again. Not when there's nothing we can do anymore."

That sapped the strength of Alan's sudden anger. He remembered the fear of that hurried flight to Antarctica, terrified of the possibility of losing more family. Kayo had told him, later, just how close she'd come to being too late to save Scott and Virgil. Their family had already lost so much; they couldn't survive another blow like that. Alan couldn't blame Scott for being worried about his little brothers seeking revenge on their own.

"If it does turn out that someone did this on purpose, I'll be the first person in the courtroom at their trial," Scott went on when Alan said nothing. "If there's justice to be had, we'll get it, for John and for the rest of us. But we've got to be smart about it. Okay?"

He looked searchingly at Alan, who dropped his gaze but nodded. There was a beat of heavy silence.

"It's not fair," Alan said. He hadn't meant to sound so petulant, so childish, but he couldn't help it.

"No, it isn't," Scott sighed, leaning in to pull Alan into a hug. "It really, really isn't."

Alan tried to let himself take comfort in the embrace, but there was still little peace to be had.

 _It should've been me._

* * *

 _"Don't watch, Dad. Please don't watch."_

Those words echoed in Jeff's head every single time his son was taken from him. John had first said the words to him on the morning Barrett's three-day ultimatum expired. Neither of them had slept that night, both haunted by the horrors of the coming day. They'd both fallen silent though, John sitting against the wall with his knees drawn up to his chest and his dull gaze fixed on the floor, Jeff mirroring his position on the other side of the force field. They both knew what every second that ticked by was bringing John closer to.

 _"Don't watch, Dad,"_ John had said out of nowhere, his gaze never lifting from the white tile. _"Please don't watch. No matter what you think they're doing to me, I…Just, it'll be worse if I know you can see it."_

He'd made Jeff promise, although it was the last thing he wanted to do. All of this was happening to John because of him, _for_ him. To spare himself the agony of watching would feel like a betrayal, like he was abandoning his son, turning a blind eye to the torment he'd caused.

But that was what John was asking of him.

So although it took everything he had, every day he turned away from the projected feed when it appeared, sat down on the bench facing the wall. There was nothing he could do about the sound though. So _every day_ , for _hours_ , he had to listen to John's choking gasps, his involuntary whimpers. Each one tore into him like shrapnel, pierced his very soul.

Today, though, those sounds didn't come. Instead, Jeff was startled by the sound of the door. Before he could even start to hope that John was being returned early that day, Barrett appeared and quashed it.

"Good morning, Jeff," he said, as pleasant as if they were old acquaintances meeting for coffee. "I thought I'd drop by to say hello."

Jeff said nothing. He'd thought he'd loathed the man before, after his own personal torment. But weeks of his son's torture had taught him that there were whole new levels of hatred he hadn't even explored yet.

"I also wanted to show you something," Barrett went on, unfazed by his silence. "And I wanted to make sure you saw it, despite John's noble little attempts to protect you from what you're doing to him."

Jeff couldn't quite hide his flinch. Barrett bared his teeth in a sharklike smile, but made no further comment. He just pulled a remote from his pocket, and keyed something into it.

A hologram flickered to life in the center of the cell, but this time it wasn't an image of John that appeared. Despite knowing that something bad was coming, Jeff couldn't help feeling the briefest flash of joy. For Scott and Virgil were recreated before him in blue-tinted light, his first glimpse of his eldest sons in two years.

They looked healthy, if tired and somber. Both boys were dressed in dark suits, and Virgil had even combed his hair flat. They were standing at a podium, Scott at the microphone and Virgil at his shoulder. Jeff had given enough press conferences to know one when he saw it.

He shot a glance at Barrett.

"What is this?" he asked, suspicious.

"Why don't you watch and see?"

So Jeff refocused on the image as what looked like a recording began to play.

 _"It has come to our attention that rumors have begun to circulate about our brother, John Tracy. Virgil and I are here today to put those rumors to rest, because John deserves better than wild speculation."_ Jeff watched his eldest take a deep breath, unbearable weight slumping his shoulders. Virgil shifted, resting a hand on his brother's shoulder. Scott looked directly into the camera. _"Four weeks ago, John was attempting to provide assistance to a man experiencing vehicle trouble. There was a terrible accident, and my brother lost his life."_

Flashes of light began to dance over his and Virgil's faces, and Jeff knew that dozens of cameras were going off, documenting their pain for the consumption of the masses. He felt his hands clenching into fists. Protecting his sons from this kind of thing was one of the reasons he'd moved his family to a private island.

 _"This is a very difficult time for our family,"_ Virgil said, leaning toward the microphone. _"And we ask that you respect our privacy as we mourn the man who was a hero to us and to the rest of the world. Thank you."_

Barrett swiped a hand through the image, freezing it.

"Did you hear that, Jeff?" he said. "They've already written him off. All it took was a little replicated tissue and a scrap of spacesuit. Your sons aren't looking for their brother, and they haven't been looking for you for quite some time. No rescue is coming."

It shouldn't have come as such a blow. It wasn't as if Jeff was surprised; Barrett would have planned John's capture so that no one would be looking for him. But perhaps a part of him had hoped…

"John doesn't need to go through all of this," Barrett went on, drawing closer to the force field that separated him from Jeff. "We both know that I'll break you eventually. You're a strong man, but you've got a messiah complex bigger than this facility, and your heart is soft. You won't be able to stand this forever. Why not spare your son the pain before the inevitable?"

Maybe he was right. Jeff had weathered his fair share of trials, but none of them had been quite like this. He was strong, and principled, and resolved, but he was a father before those things, and that part of him was dying inside.

But then Jeff thought about John himself, about _Don't watch, Dad_ , about the young man who'd given up everything to watch over others. He looked once more at the image of Scott and Virgil, wondering if it would be the last time he ever saw them, doing his best to make peace with the fact that it might well be. And then he looked at Barrett.

"Because my boys are stronger than me," he said.

* * *

Virgil was sitting at his piano, trying to remember what the will to play felt like, when the call came in.

 _"International Rescue, we have a situation."_

The voice was all wrong, but the words still went straight to Virgil's heart like a jolt of electricity. He stood and looked to the central comm unit, which had hummed to life. He froze, staring in surprised bafflement.

A hologram was projecting, but the image floating in the air didn't belong to anyone Virgil knew. There was a girl staring back at him, and she couldn't have been older than eight or nine. She was wearing a blue spacesuit, one that looked too much like John's to be a coincidence. And though Virgil was certain that he'd never seen her before, there was something familiar about her, and her voice, when she'd spoken, had been even more so.

"Eos?" he said, hesitant. "Is, uh, is that you?"

The girl nodded.

 _"I thought that a human interface would make communication more comfortable,"_ she said.

"You look…" Virgil trailed off, still effectively speechless.

 _"I created my avatar based on composite images of human girls."_

"And John," Virgil guessed. "You used his features too, didn't you?"

She looked too much like him for it not to be true. She had his luminous eyes, his narrow face, his graceful cheekbones, even his fiery hair, although hers was longer and pulled into pigtails. Virgil couldn't help wondering if she also had his smile. Mom's smile.

Eos suddenly seemed a little uncertain.

 _"Do you think he'd mind?"_

She looked so young. Virgil was reminded sharply that while Eos was a brilliant AI, unparalleled in humanity or technology, she was still new to this world, new to _life_ , such as it was. John had been her mentor, her guardian, the person who helped her make sense of everything. She had to be struggling a little in the wake of his loss.

"No, Eos," Virgil said gently. "I think he'd be flattered."

Which was true, but it didn't make it any easier for Virgil to see echoes of his lost brother. Especially when Eos gave him a small, shy smile that did turn out to be painfully similar to her creator's.

 _"I'm glad,"_ she said, and it was odd to think of an artificial intelligence being glad about anything, but she seemed genuine. _"Now, about that situation._ _I've been running Thunderbird 5 in John's absence, and I just communicated with a scientific submarine conducting deep ocean research. They suffered mechanical failure, and can't return to the surface. They're leaking air and sinking at a slow but steady rate. Within four hours, their vessel will either have been crushed by the pressure, or the 37 man crew will have run out of oxygen."_

It was a _rescue_. She was trying to dispatch them.

"We're not…" Virgil swallowed hard, his heart twisting in his chest. "Eos, you might not understand this, but we're not ready to start running rescues yet. The local authorities will just have to handle whatever's wrong."

 _"I've been directing the proper authorities to incidents, but there are some situations in which only the specialized equipment of International Rescue is capable of saving lives. Eight of those situations have come and gone since John died, because I calculated that the risks posed by your states of mind outweighed the chances of positive outcomes."_

Virgil blinked. Eight possible rescues? That meant a minimum of eight people they could have saved, eight…eight families mourning like his was now. What was it Scott had reminded him of? _It made a difference to that one_.

 _"I miss him too, Virgil,"_ Eos went on _. "He was my friend, my…father. Which is why I wish to continue my existence in a way that would make him proud. I believe he'd want you to do the same."_

Virgil closed his eyes briefly. She was right, this bizarre brainchild of his brother's. John would be devastated to know that International Rescue had shut down in his absence, that innocent people were going unsaved because of his death. The idea of his disappointment was quite suddenly unbearable.

"Call the others," he decided. "It's time for International Rescue to start living up to its name again."

When he explained the situation to his brothers a minute later, he saw his own sadness, relief, and determination mirrored in them. They were ready.

"A damaged sub sounds like a job for Thunderbird 4, so I'll take Gordon out to the site in Thunderbird 2," Virgil said.

"Good idea," said Scott. "I'll head out ahead of you guys in Thunderbird 1, just to see if there's anything I can do before you get there."

Virgil blinked at him. The submarine was already thousands of feet below the surface, far out of reach of any of Thunderbird 1's equipment. There wouldn't be a single thing that Scott could do.

…Except be there to keep an eye on them.

"It's not because I don't trust you guys," Scott said more quietly when he saw that he'd been figured out.

Of course it wasn't. It was because the last time Scott had hung behind on a mission, he'd lost a brother.

"We know," Gordon said for all of them. No one seemed willing to give voice to the real reason. "We'll meet you there."

Scott gave them a tight smile and started moving towards his launch station.

"Should…should we send Alan up to Thunderbird 5?" Gordon asked with a touch of hesitation. "To run ops and support?"

They all looked to Alan, who had blanched just a little. He glanced up at the sky, as if he could see all the way to the space station orbiting far overhead. He swallowed hard, and then looked back down at the others.

"I can go," he said, grim determination setting his features.

"Eos can handle it," Scott said gently. "John designed her, after all."

"I still want to help," Alan said, although he failed to mask his relief at not having to go up by himself to John's untouched domain.

"You can help Brains and me from down here." That was Grandma Tracy, who none of them had noticed come in. She drew closer, putting her hands on Alan's shoulders. "We need you ready to dispatch if something else comes up, after all."

Alan was appeased at having his own responsibility. Grandma Tracy looked past him to the rest of them. There was worry in her eyes, but she gave them a small smile.

"You boys are doing the right thing," she told them. "I'm proud of every single one of you. Be safe." A glint of mischief lit her eyes. "I'll get started on some celebratory cookies for when you get back."

They all groaned theatrically and headed for their various loading stations.

Even as Virgil's body took him through the familiar motions of suiting up and getting ready to launch, his heart was heavier than it had ever been before a rescue. Part of him was glad for that, though. It would have felt like a betrayal if it were easy.

Soon, he and Gordon were strapped into their usual seats, and Virgil's hands were on the familiar controls of his ship. And there it was at last, the thrill of a rescue, the surge of excitement at the prospect of saving lives. Fainter than usual, and mixed with a deep, untouchable sadness, but there nonetheless.

He leaned on the thrusters, sent them rocketing up the ramp and into the sky. Thunderbird 1 flew overhead, carving an arc of exhaust through the clear blue sky.

Someone had to say it. Virgil looked at Gordon, waited for Scott, but neither of them seemed willing. He squared his shoulders and cleared his throat.

"Thunderbirds are go."

* * *

The coughing fit drew Jeff from his usual fitful sleep. This wasn't an uncommon occurrence; after what John went through every day, it was more unusual for him _not_ to cough a few times, and Jeff, who had been attuned to sounds of distress from his children since the day Scott was born, woke every time. He'd heard that cough so many times now that he'd memorized the exact sound and quality of it.

Which was why he could instantly hear the difference now. It was wet and crackling, sounds of trouble that came from somewhere deep inside. And it didn't stop.

"John?" Jeff strode to the barrier and knelt to get a better look at his son. His breath caught.

Jeff had met Lucy Taylor when she was in her first year of medical school in Houston. With her constantly in class or hitting the books, and him in his own demanding training for NASA, the early years of their relationship had consisted of them trying to figure out ways to spend time with each other without causing both of them to fail out of their respective programs. It meant Jeff had spent quite a lot of time helping Lucy study. He'd read up on all kinds of diseases and conditions so that he could act as her patient, feigning symptoms and answering questions (his prolapsed uterus had been an interesting experience). Some of that knowledge, those lists of illnesses and their signs, had stuck with him, information that had helped him more than once over the course of his various careers.

So while Jeff would never have the medical expertise of his wife, he knew enough to see that their son was in bad shape. John's skin was ashen, and his eyes, when he managed to get them open, were unfocused and too bright.

"Does your chest hurt when you breathe?" Jeff asked him.

John had to cough again before he answered.

"I'm fine, Dad-"

"That's not what I asked." Jeff gave his son a hard stare. "John. Does breathing make your chest hurt?"

John hesitated for a beat, and then nodded.

"And are you hotter or colder than usual? Any chills, sweating?"

"Chills," John said reluctantly.

Jeff could see for himself the answer to the sweating question. He took a breath.

"C'mere," he said. "Get as close to me as you can."

John made a face but still complied, hauling himself closer. He looked even worse from this distance.

"Okay, now press your back against the force field, and take a deep breath when I tell you to."

Jeff crouched low, ignoring his body's protests at the abuse. He cupped his hands against the force field over John's back and pressed his ear to the other end of the short cavity formed. As he'd been hoping, the barrier conducted sound better than the air, and his makeshift echo chamber amplified it. Not perfectly - not even well - but enough. He could hear the steady thump of his son's heart, the faint whoosh of his breath.

"All right, deep breath."

John complied, and Jeff closed his eyes. There it was; that tell-tale crackle and labored wheeze. He flinched and pulled away as the deep breath triggered a coughing fit in John.

"Dad?" John twisted to face him again once he'd caught his breath. He took in his father's expression. "What's wrong?"

What _wasn't_ wrong probably would have been a simpler question to answer, but all of Jeff's earlier worries had quite suddenly taken a backseat to this new one, immediate and terrifying.

John had pneumonia.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**...sorry?_

 _We're getting there, folks, although I'm afraid it's gonna be a bit of a rough ride from here on out...*evil grin*_

 _As always, thank you so very much to all those who have left reviews. You guys make this such an incredibly rewarding endeavor._


	9. Fault Lines

Gordon had been in some creepy places before. He'd dived shipwrecks, searched burned-out skeletons of buildings, survived the cursed tomb of an ancient king with a case of the giggles. But none of that could quite compare to the feeling of floating in his dead brother's space station.

Thunderbird 5 was as pristine as it had been a month ago, when John had left it for what he hadn't known was the last time. The lights were still on, the life support systems still hummed quietly, monitors and displays still flashed with lights and information. It was like the station was still waiting for John to come home to it. And maybe it was, given the AI that inhabited it.

John must have left the gravity off when he left, because the ring was spinning too slowly to keep Gordon's feet on the floor. While Gordon wasn't quite as hopeless as Virgil was in zero-g, he was nowhere near John's or Alan's, or even Scott's, level. He was glad no one could witness the undignified flailing that he was forced to employ in order to move about the space station.

Alan had once expressed disbelief in Gordon's issues in the absence of gravity. He'd seemed to be of the opinion that it wasn't that different from maneuvering in water, and if Gordon was good at one he should be good at the other. So the next time John had come down from Thunderbird 5, Gordon shoved him in the pool and recorded the results. He'd shown the video of his brother floundering in the water like a baby giraffe and a wet cat all rolled up into one irate ginger package to Alan as direct evidence to the contrary.

John would probably have gotten a kick out of seeing the tables turned on him now.

Gordon didn't know his way around all that well, but he knew enough to bypass the door that led to John's small bedroom. Maybe he'd come up here to feel closer to John, but he wasn't ready for that yet. He kept going, making his ungainly way through an open portal into the central control room, from which John had run most of his operations. The room was spherical, the lack of gravity rendering a floor useless, and the walls were paneled with specialized sensors and projector nodes that combined to create an interactive console that could project anything throughout the entire space. Its default seemed to be the globe, and Gordon found himself floating through Australia.

Gordon stopped as best he could, and looked around. He'd only been up here a couple of times before, but he knew enough to recognize about half of the gauges and displays he was seeing.

…Okay, maybe a third. There was the array of icons for placing a call to Tracy Island or any of the Thunderbirds. There were the feeds to all of the major news networks. There was the personal comm unit that John had used for the last conversation Gordon would ever have with him.

Gordon's throat tightened. Despite the fact that his body was weightless, his heart felt heavy as a stone in his chest.

"I've gotta say, you're the last person I would've expected to find up here."

Gordon jumped and spun around, accidentally sending himself pinwheeling through the Maldives.

"Whoa, easy." Virgil reached out to steady him. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Gordon had to take a moment to let his heart restart. He hadn't realized he'd been up here long enough for the space elevator to make another trip to and from Tracy Island. He'd also figured that everyone else would be worn out from the rescue, their first in a long, _long_ month.

"You know, for such a big guy, you'd think you would make more noise," he said.

"I can start wearing a bell."

"I know you think you're kidding, but wait till you see what you get on your next birthday."

The moment Gordon's brain caught up to his words, his heart clenched. Yeah, that was sure to be one hell of a celebration, the day only one of the Tracy twins would get to turn another year older. Just because John had chosen years ago to celebrate on their half birthday so that Virgil could have the actual day to himself, didn't mean he wouldn't be at the forefront of everyone's minds. Gordon grimaced.

"Sorry-"

"It's okay," Virgil said, raising a hand. "We can't keep dancing around the subject forever. Especially here, of all places."

Gordon looked around. He'd almost forgotten where they were. Quite a feat, really, considering the fact that they were both floating in a giant holographic globe.

"I don't really know why I came up here," he admitted in answer to Virgil's unspoken question. "Just…this rescue, not having him talking us through it, it felt…"

"I know," Virgil said softly, and the sadness in his eyes was deep and breathtaking. "Believe me, I know. But it was better than not going on the rescue at all."

"I know it was."

Seeing the faces of the submarine crew after he'd towed them safely to the surface, watching them hug each other in relief and a few start laughing with the sheer joy of being alive, had been the best Gordon had felt since John's death. It was every other moment before and after that was miserable. Tension had been high, and tempers short. Scott had started yelling at Gordon when he thought he was taking an unnecessary risk, then Virgil had started yelling at Scott to lay off of Gordon, and it had taken Grandma yelling at all of them to get them to calm down.

"But it doesn't feel right, just…just carrying on. I mean is this just how we're supposed to do things from now on, forever? Just pretend that we're not missing this huge part of what - of _who_ we are?"

"No one's pretending anything, Gordon," Virgil sighed. He glanced around the control room, his gaze lingering on the minimized window that displayed a frozen scene from John's favorite TV show, evidence of what he'd been doing when Gordon had called a lifetime ago. "We all miss John, and we always will."

"It just- it feels like we're saying we didn't need him."

"Yeah? How many times on that mission did you start trying to say something to him, or ask him something, before you caught yourself and remembered?" Virgil held Gordon's startled gaze. "Because I lost track, myself."

Gordon's eyes stung, but he was relieved that it hadn't been just him.

"We're…we're broken, Gords," Virgil went on, but he looked away now. "Just like we were when we lost Mom, and then Dad. We'll never be the same again, and for a little while there I thought this was the time we couldn't come back from it, couldn't keep going. But…Gordon, _we're still here_. So we figure out a way to make that mean something. It's all we can do."

"I know." And that's what they'd done today. That's what they would keep doing every day. "But man, this sucks."

That drew a huff from Virgil.

"To say the least."

He reached out, managing to snag Gordon and tug him close enough to wrap his arms around him. Gordon thought about putting up a token protest, but getting hugged by Virgil was like being enveloped in sunshine and surrounded by puppies at the same time, and he didn't have it in him to resist. Besides, he knew it was important to Virgil to feel like he was doing something, supporting the others.

He wasn't sure how long they floated there, these two pieces of a broken family, but he knew they couldn't stay like that forever. At last, he squeezed Virgil just a little tighter, and then let go.

"Zero-g hugs are weird," he sniffed, his voice a touch thicker than usual.

Virgil chuckled, and let them drift apart slightly.

"You won't hear me argue," he said. "What do you say we head back down to terra firma?"

"Actually, I guess I did come up here for a reason," Gordon said, remembering. "I was gonna, well…" Man, it felt stupider up here, trying to put his plan into words.

"You were gonna what?" Virgil prompted when he didn't say anything else.

"Well, I mean, no one will be up here for a while, right? It's not like we're just gonna maroon Alan up here, and none of the rest of us are astronauts, so it's gonna stay empty."

"Yeah…" Virgil said slowly, still clearly not understanding where this was headed. Gordon wasn't entirely sure he himself understood either.

"I was just thinking, Eos is kind of like a kid in some ways, right? _John's_ kid, sort of." Virgil's dark eyebrows went up, but Gordon kept forging ahead before he could say anything. "Well, when I was a kid, I would've hated being stuck alone on a space station. I mean, I guess I'd hate that as an adult too, but that's not the point. I was just thinking that Eos might like to come down to Tracy Island to, uh, stay with us."

Virgil was staring at him now, and Gordon felt like an idiot.

Truthfully, he was a little surprised by his own actions. He would never have considered himself a member of the Eos fan club. His introduction to the AI had consisted of standing by helplessly while he listened to her almost killing John. Not something that he found particularly endearing, and that was _before_ Alan had confided in him the next day, needing someone to talk to about what he'd experienced. He'd told Gordon how close to death John had been when he found him, and how the vicious computer program had persisted, continuing its onslaught against its creator, against Alan as he tried to help John.

It was therefore unsurprising that even after John had made friends with it, trust didn't come so easily to the rest of the family. Gordon couldn't speak for the rest of them, but he'd never felt quite secure in John's safety for a long time after that. In all that time though, Eos had been a faithful companion to John, and she'd never given them another reason to question her. Still, it had been hard not to wonder, at times.

But then Stelair Satellite 2-1 had blown up. Gordon had listened to the audio recordings of the moments just before and after; they all had, back when they thought that John was still alive and they might find clues to his whereabouts by studying the explosion. He'd heard how anxious Eos had sounded when John was in trouble. Then he'd watched how hard Eos had been working to find him, delving through vast computer networks, crunching impossible amounts of data in search of anything useful. And when they'd been forced to give up on John, when Gordon had gone for his ill-fated swim in the ocean, Eos had been the one to track him down, to tell Alan where to find him before it was too late.

Now she'd pulled them together, given them the kick in the pants they needed to act instead of drowning in their grief. She was just as responsible for the survival of those 37 joyous submariners today as any human member of International Rescue.

And, perhaps the most significant reason Gordon was up here: she was a piece of John. Whatever she was, John had created her, and he'd cared for her. Gordon couldn't help thinking that he'd want his family to do the same.

 _"That's very thoughtful, Gordon. I'm sorry for making fun of your fashion sense."_

Gordon blinked at the sound of the childlike voice. He tilted his head up to look at the ceiling, despite the fact that 'ceiling' was a relative term up here, and that probably wasn't where Eos' cameras were anyway.

"What exactly did you have to say about my fashion sense?" he demanded.

 _"Perhaps you should ask that question of Lady Penelope the next time you see her."_

Gordon could only splutter indignantly for a moment.

"Yeah, well, your…"

He jumped as a holographic projection of Eos appeared in the air before him. The spacesuit she wore was identical to John's, although her utility belt was purple instead of orange. She crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin.

"No, do go on," she prompted, raising an eyebrow in a challenge. "I'd love to hear your comments on the way I dress my immaterial avatar."

Gordon scowled at the AI, all four feet of her. For all that he knew she was a super-intelligent computer program, he couldn't bring himself to insult a little girl. Even when she gave him an impish, self-satisfied smile.

"That's what I thought."

He wasn't above sticking his tongue out at her though. And she apparently wasn't above returning the gesture.

"All right," Virgil said, in the voice he usually reserved for dealing with Gordon and Alan when they were up to their typical shenanigans. He looked at Eos, his expression gentling. "We can make it happen, if you want, Eos. But you're also welcome to stay up here and keep running Thunderbird 5."

Eos uncrossed her arms and looked back and forth between Virgil and Gordon. Her expression had gone weirdly…blank. Not in a way that suggested that she was angry, but rather that she didn't know what emotion to display, and had defaulted to neutral.

"I'm touched by the offer," she said at last. "But my utility will be maximized up here. I may be young, in human terms, but despite the appearance I've chosen, I'm not like human children in most regards. I'm quite capable of looking after myself, and I don't experience loneliness, at least not the way you do. And if I do find myself wishing for intelligent company, I'll call…"

"Yeah, you're welcome anytime-"

"…Captain O'Bannon," Eos finished with a smirk.

Her image flickered and vanished, leaving Gordon with nothing to do but splutter at Virgil, who had no business looking like he was fighting a smile.

"You _did_ say she was like John's kid," Virgil said with a shrug. "Guess that comes with his attitude."

There was nothing left for the two of them on the space station, so they made their way back out into the gravity ring, which Eos had deigned to turn on for them. They boarded the space elevator, and one rousing game of rock-paper-scissors later, Virgil was strapping himself into the comfortable main seat while a grumbling Gordon buckled himself into one of the standing-room-only wall harnesses. They disengaged from Thunderbird 5 with a jolt, and Gordon's stomach turned over. He made a grab for the straps of his harness, clinging tight.

"Wanna hold my hand?" Virgil asked him, eyebrow raised.

"Wanna shut up?"

Virgil just smirked, but it wasn't long before a somber mood reclaimed them both. They descended toward the earth in silence for a few minutes.

 _"Gordon?"_ Eos didn't bother projecting an image of her avatar this time.

"Yeah?"

 _"John taught me how to play chess, and I suppose…well, I've rather missed our regular games. He told me you like to play as well…"_

Gordon's throat went tight again. Mom had tried to teach all of the boys how to play chess, but only Gordon and John had been interested. It was one of the only things that could actually make Gordon sit still for any length of time when he was little, and therefore one of the only means he had of spending time with John. Four years his elder, John had won most of those early games, not the type to go easy on his little brother. But he'd also pretended not to notice when Gordon moved the pieces around when he thought John wasn't looking, so things evened out.

They'd stopped playing for a long time after Mom died though, neither ready to face the memories of her that came with the game. It hadn't been until Gordon's lengthy hospital stay after his hydrofoil accident that John had shown up with their battered old chess set under his arm. Neither of them had said much, but Gordon had been grateful for the challenge, for the distraction from the pain of his healing body and dashed dreams. John still hadn't let him win though.

"Yeah, Eos," Gordon said now. "I do." He didn't make her ask the next question. "Tonight at seven?"

 _"You're on. I hope you play better than you dress."_

* * *

Jeff's relationship with sleep had long ago grown tenuous, but tonight it had finally deserted him altogether. He suspected it might never return.

He was sitting cross-legged at the edge of the force field, his forehead resting against the barrier. His aching eyes were fixed on the figure sleeping just feet away, unblinking as he tracked the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He'd unconsciously timed his own breath to the rhythm, because each time John's chest sank, Jeff couldn't breathe until it started to rise again. His very existence seemed to have narrowed down to that motion.

They'd killed John that day.

The pneumonia had been sapping John's strength at an alarming rate. Worse though, it had diminished his lung capacity, which his tormentors had failed to account for. Jeff had been keeping his promise, facing away from the projection, but he'd heard the sudden cursing from Barrett's men. Worse, though, was what he hadn't heard, which was the rattling wheeze of John's breath. Unable to stand not knowing, he'd turned to see the sudden frenzy of activity, one of the men doing compressions on John's motionless chest while another vanished from view and then reappeared with an automatic defibrillator. They'd had to resuscitate John, and for the worst two minutes of Jeff's life, he hadn't been sure they would succeed.

John hadn't said a word about the incident once he'd been returned to their cell. For the first time though, he also hadn't had so much as looked at his father. He'd barely even moved from where the guards had dumped him, just curled up and shut his eyes, shivering. Jeff had tried talking to him, telling him another innocuous story, but his voice had faltered, his throat closing. The only sound since then had been John's labored breathing and the occasional hacking cough. He had fallen asleep eventually, but that wasn't an option for Jeff.

The intensity of his vigil meant that he noticed the second John's breathing started to speed up. At first, he thought it meant that John was waking up, although he'd only been asleep for a couple of hours. But John's eyes remained closed, and then he cried out, making Jeff jump. He clambered to his feet as John lashed out, flailing against an unseen enemy. He shouted again, a terrified, pained cry.

"John!" Jeff called to him. "Wake up, son, it's just a nightmare. John!"

But there was no indication that John had heard him. He continued to thrash, his eyes darting wildly beneath their lids.

"No, please!" he whimpered. His entire body was shaking, his chest heaving. "Stop, I can't- _please_!"

Jeff pounded his fist against the force field, calling out to his son again. He'd always had a loud, commanding voice, good for keeping subordinates in line or wrangling wayward children in a crowd. In that moment, though, it did nothing, still not enough to draw John from whatever horrors were plaguing his sleep.

Either John was so deep in a fevered haze that he couldn't hear his father, or…Jeff cast a suspicious look at the faint shimmer in the air. Could the barrier have been rigged somehow, to block the travel of sound from one side? Was Barrett really that devious?

"John!"

It was no use. He wasn't getting through to him. Jeff could only watch, helpless to save his son from even this.

"Dad." Before Jeff could feel more than a split second of relief, he realized that John was still asleep, his voice terrified and pleading. "Dad, _help me_."

Jeff slumped down to the floor again, dropping his head into his hands. For the first time since his captivity had begun, he broke down in tears.

* * *

There was little point in waking up from nightmares anymore. Not when his days held the same horrors as his nights, and the line between them grew blurred by fever. But it was still a relief when sleep released John, even as awareness brought with it the aches and chills and suffocating pressure of his illness. He couldn't remember exactly what last night's dream had been about now, but he knew it'd been a doozy.

He sat up with a groan and a painful cough, propping his body against the wall. Being upright eased his breathing a little. Not much, but it was something. He wrapped his arms around himself as a painful shiver wracked his body. His chest was absolutely on _fire_ , worse than anything the pneumonia had thrown at him yet, and he knew that some of his ribs had to be broken from…from the chest compressions that had helped revived him. _Jesus_.

He wished he could just take a deep breath, but he'd learned the hard way that even trying was a bad idea. So he just closed his eyes for a moment, did his best to settle himself. He wished he could just _think_ , but his mind had been growing slow and murky. At last, he looked up, searching out his father. He hadn't quite been able to manage it the day before, knowing that he didn't have it in him to hide the defeat he was feeling, the hopelessness…the regret.

Because part of him wished that Barrett's men hadn't succeeded in bringing him back.

Dad was already awake, sitting on the other side of the barrier. John didn't quite understand the look his father was giving him. His eyes were rimmed with red, from exhaustion or…no, surely just exhaustion. John studied him in concern.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice coming out thin and raspy.

For some reason, the question made Dad's expression twist. He placed his palm against the force field, and leaned his forehead beside it. He took a deep breath.

"I am so proud of you, John," he said. "I don't know exactly what's gonna happen next, but I need you to know that, and that I am so, so sorry that this is happening to you because of me."

"It's not your fault," John told him at once, putting as much of his remaining strength as he could into the words. All it did was trigger another agonizing coughing fit, but when it was over, he looked at Dad again. "This is all on Barrett."

As if he had been summoned by the sound of his name, the door behind John slid open and Barrett appeared, flanked by the usual guards. There were only two of them this time. John was pretty sure he would have been insulted by that if he had the energy.

"Good morning," Barrett said. He flashed John a cruel smile. "Sleep well?"

John just blinked up at him, unable to muster up the will for a smart response. Barrett's smile didn't fade as he stepped aside to let the guards past him. Despite the routine of the situation, John couldn't help flinching away from the armed men as they stooped to grab him, his broken body already bracing for what was to come. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to survive another day of this.

"No, wait!"

Now that wasn't routine. Dad's shout gave the guards pause, and John looked up at his father. He was standing with his hands pressed to the force field, eyes locked on Barrett.

"Leave him alone," he said. "I'll do it."

Barrett blinked, his smile slipping for an instant, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing, after all this time.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that," he said.

"I'll do it," Dad repeated, glowering at Barrett. "I'll do it, okay, you piece of shit. I'll design your weapons. Just don't touch him again."

"Dad…" John said weakly. But he suddenly found he didn't have the words of protest left in him, and he hated himself for it.

"Listen to your father," Barrett snapped at him.

But then he smiled at Dad.

"I'm glad you're finally seeing things my way," he said. "And to show you that I'm not as unreasonable as you seem to think, I'll even let you have a few minutes with your son before you get started."

He left, and Dad tested the barrier that had been separating him from John for so long. When he found it absent at last, he rushed to his son's side, kneeling beside him. He pressed the back of one hand to John's forehead, and checked his pulse with the other. He frowned.

"Just hang in there," he said, voice laced with concern. "I'm gonna try to get you some medicine."

"Dad, you shouldn't've…"

"Don't," Dad admonished. "I can't…" His expression twisted. "I can't watch that again, John. I just can't."

John closed his eyes, forgetting himself and trying to take a deep breath. It stabbed at his chest, and he gasped, coughing. His eyes watered with the pain of it, and he grasped blindly for his father's hand, squeezing it tight.

"I'm sorry," he whispered miserably. "I should've been stronger."

"John, you've been stronger than I ever could've imagined," Dad told him. "Stronger than you ever should've had to be. It's my turn now."

He looped an arm behind John's shoulders and helped him sit and then stand, moving towards the bed at the back of the cell. John's legs felt like putty beneath him, and he had to lean more on his father than he would have liked. He certainly didn't feel strong.

Seven faces flashed through his mind, the seven people whose deaths he'd presided over. How many more would be joining them? How many more people would suffer for his failings? How many others like…like…No. _No_.

He didn't remember their names.

A vise closed around John's heart, and his breathing sped painfully. No, surely, _surely_ he hadn't forgotten…Ava DuMoir, Tariq…Tariq _Daher_ , Gui…Gui…John pressed his palms to his forehead, as if he could force the information from his wasting mind. There had been a girl, nineteen years old, the age Gordon had been at the time. She'd just gotten her pilot's license, and had lost one of her engines to a flock of geese on her first solo flight. She'd crashed in the Catskills, and her chest had been crushed on impact. She'd still had enough control over her body to call for International Rescue though. Ten minutes later, she'd died with a choked plea for John not to leave her alone.

And John _didn't remember her name._

"Easy, John, don't cry," Dad said. John hadn't realized he was, but now he didn't quite see how he was supposed to stop. "It's gonna be all right."

John had never known his father to be a liar, but he couldn't make himself believe that one.

* * *

Virgil wasn't sure he would have believed it possible a month ago, but they were finding a new normal. International Rescue was back up and running in earnest, taking on as many rescues as they had before they'd lost John. Eos had taken over running ops, although despite her best efforts, she still wasn't as good at certain things, like anticipating the needs and questions of the others, tempering the idiotic ideas that arose, knowing who needed a break and when. In short, she wasn't John.

But, on the surface at least, they were managing. They were carrying out their father's mission, honoring their brother's legacy.

And if a somber cloud still hung over Tracy Island, if tempers were short and conversations shorter, if the occasional shouting drew everyone into someone's bedroom after a nightmare, then that was the cost of mourning. In some ways, John had become more present in death than he had been in life, for the absence of him permeated the very atmosphere at home, stifling and impossible to ignore.

Some other things had changed, of course. Scott had a tendency to come along on rescues where he wasn't needed, and when he couldn't go, he'd send Kayo as added security. It felt rather like having a babysitter, but not even Alan had complained (much) about the new oversight. They all knew where the concern came from.

Today actually marked the first day that Virgil and Gordon were on a rescue by themselves, taking care of a pair of divers who'd been trapped by an underwater rockslide. Kayo had been called out earlier to deal with a stranded hiker, and Scott had flown out with Thunderbird 2, but then Eos had sent him to a collapsing water tower.

Despite Scott's fears, the rescue was going fine without bodyguards. Gordon had located the divers without difficulty, and now he was picking his way to them using Thunderbird 4's grasping arms. Virgil was keeping a careful eye on things from above, but Gordon had things well in hand. Maybe Scott would start to ease up a little after-

 _"Mayday, mayday, mayday! Tracy Island to Thunderbirds 1 and 2. Come in, please!"_

Virgil's heart dropped into the sea below at his grandmother's call. Grandma Tracy never panicked, but the fear in her voice was unmistakeable.

 _"What's wrong, Grandma?"_ Scott demanded, beating Virgil to the words.

 _"Brains and I were just locked in the workshop by a couple of armed thugs. The Hood's men."_

"Are either of you hurt?" Virgil asked.

 _"No, we're fine. But the Hood is here, and Alan is upstairs."_

 _"Go, Thunderbird 2,"_ Gordon said at once. _"I'll finish this up on my own and wait for you to pick me up."_

"FAB," Virgil said, already engaging his thrusters.

Not having Thunderbird 4's module attached wreaked havoc on his ship's aerodynamics, but the decreased weight meant that he wasn't really slowed down. It still felt like he was moving at a crawl though as he raced toward the island that had never felt farther away. The thought of Alan and the Hood in the same place made his heart feel like it was frozen in a block of ice.

 _"I'm on my way back too,"_ Scott said. _"I got things stabilized enough here for the locals to deal with. Thunderbird Shadow?"_

 _"I'm halfway around the world,"_ Kayo said, the frustration audible in her voice. _"It'll be at least two hours before I can get there."_

"We'll handle it," Virgil said. "Grandma, what exactly happened?"

 _"We don't know. Brains was just showing me a new prototype he was excited about, and suddenly these hooligans showed up and locked us in. They had those silly masks on, the ones that make 'em look like sith lords."_

 _"Can you get out?"_ Kayo asked.

 _"I'm t-t-trying now,"_ said Brains, his voice sounding more distant than Grandma's had. _"But the lock on the door appears to be j-jammed. We might have to c-cut through it."_

"Just be careful," Virgil warned. "It sounds like you're safe in there, but the moment you try to leave, you'll be in danger."

 _"We're not gonna just stay put while my grandson is at the mercy of that bald creep who's tried to kill all of you more than once!"_

Yeah, Virgil could understand that. He coaxed an extra burst of speed from his ship.

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," he said, voice tight. "Eos, can you see anything?"

There was no response.

"Eos? Can you hear me?" Still nothing. Virgil's knuckles whitened on his controls. "Tracy Island, can you reach Eos?"

This time, there was no response from Grandma or Brains either. Virgil's heart sank that much lower.

 _"He must have figured out how to disable the signals from base,"_ Kayo said after a tense moment of silence.

No one wanted to argue with her, because the alternative was that Grandma and Brains couldn't talk at all.

 _"We should've seen this coming,"_ Scott said after a minute or two, sounding angry with himself. _"The Hood's known where the island is for months; he could've been planning something this whole time."_

"What exactly could we have done about it, Scott?" Virgil asked. "It's not like we were gonna just pick up and move."

 _"We could've strengthened our defenses."_

"Don't you think Kayo's already made them as strong as possible?"

 _"You don't have to defend me, Virgil,"_ Kayo said. _"Scott's right, we should've been prepared for something like this."_

"We can worry about that later," Virgil said. "Right now, we need to focus on Alan."

The reminder sobered all of them. Virgil checked his gauges, but he was already asking all he could from his engines. His instruments told him that he was still a little under ten long minutes away. He clenched his jaw, fighting down panic that wouldn't help anyone. Trying to, anyway.

The twins had always been the most levelheaded in the family. They were the voices of reason, the ones who could take a step back and assess even the worst of situations with calm poise, who could reel in the others when they threatened to go flying off the handle. Virgil had been struggling to maintain control over his emotions recently though, and never more so than in that moment.

 _Not Alan, too, please not Alan not Alan…_

At long last, Tracy Island loomed on the horizon, and Virgil leaned forward in his seat. A dark shape stood out against the blue sky above the island, the unmistakeable profile of a ship.

"Scott-"

 _"I see it."_

Virgil glanced at his instruments, spotting the signal of Thunderbird 1 approaching from his left. The two of them would reach the island at about the same time. All they could do now was pray that it would be soon enough.

"That has to be the Hood's ship," Virgil said.

 _"Yeah, but wait, is it-? It looks like he's leaving."_

Virgil's stomach lurched, and he squinted through his windshield. Sure enough, while the profile of Tracy Island was steadily growing, the Hood's ship seemed to be shrinking in size, drawing farther away.

 _"Why would he…what if he's got Alan?"_

It seemed a terrifyingly real possibility. Just as terrifying was the possibility of the alternatives. For if the Hood hadn't taken Alan, then what had he left behind?

 _Please._

"See if you can catch up to him, just in case, while I cover the island. But be _careful_ , Scott. If the Hood has Alan, there's no telling what he might do to him if he feels threatened."

And even if he didn't, they'd already seen just how proficient the Hood's defenses could be.

After one final agonizing minute, Thunderbird 2 was reaching Tracy Island. Virgil didn't have the time to waste on a normal landing. He just switched on Thunderbird 2's autopilot and hooked a cable to his belt before diving from the ship, slowing his descent just before his feet hit the concrete that ringed the pool. He disconnected himself in an instant and sprinted towards the house, dreading what he might find.

"Alan!" he shouted as he ran. "Alan, are you here? _Alan!_ "

His heart turned over when he spotted the figure standing unhurt in the middle of the dining area. Alan looked up at the sound of his shout.

"Virgil, I'm o-" was as far as he got before Virgil was upon him, gathering him in a crushing hug. He let out a muffled squeak. "Can't - breathe - bro."

Virgil released him, but kept a grip on his shoulders, pulling back to study him.

 _"Do you have him? Is he all right?"_ Scott's worried voice came over the comm on Virgil's wrist.

"I'm _fine_ , Scott!" Alan insisted. "He didn't hurt me."

 _"Good. I'm not gonna be so considerate when I catch up to him."_

Alan frowned at Virgil in confusion.

"Scott's going after the Hood," Virgil explained.

"He's not gonna catch him. He planned all of this."

"Then why would he let you go?"

"He said he just wanted to talk to me."

" _Talk_ to you? Why? About what?"

Alan just blinked up at him, his blue eyes wide and shocked. Virgil looked him over again, but he really did look unharmed. A moment later though, he understood.

"He told me he knows what happened to John."

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ _I did promise a rough ride, didn't I?_

 _Just a few more chapters to go, now. Thank you so much to everyone who has made writing this such an enjoyable experience :)_


	10. Perfidy

It was far too short a time before Barrett's men returned for Jeff. He'd gotten John settled as best he could, but there was only so much he could do. John's fever had gotten worse by the day, and his lungs were so bad now that Jeff could hear his every breath without any assistance. His skin was deathly pale, save for the shadows around his eyes and the dark bruise that crept past the collar of his shirt. He looked…faded, somehow, fragile, as if he were halfway to being a ghost.

The last thing Jeff wanted to do was leave him in that condition, but he had little choice in the matter now. So he squeezed John's shoulder, smoothed his hair back from his sweaty face, and followed the guards out of the cell. He was led to a part of the facility he'd never seen before, and a set of doors slid open to let him into a room full of advanced computers, drafting tables: anything Jeff could need to design a whole fleet of war machines. The wall opposite the door was actually a window, although it wasn't the outdoors on the other side, but rather…

Jeff swallowed hard. He'd been hoping that the work he'd have to do would be mostly theoretical at the start, something he could do slowly. He'd hoped that it would take a while for any designs he produced to actually be made into anything that could do any damage. But what he was looking at now was a cavernous hangar, with manufacturing equipment of all kinds installed on the ground and cranes and platforms overhead for working on something large. It was the kind of space Jeff and his family had used to create the Thunderbirds.

"Impressive, isn't it?"

Jeff turned to see Barrett standing in the doorway. He gestured to the window, and the vast hangar beyond.

"We'll be ready to start mocking up prototypes as soon as you provide the designs," he said. "I think this project has experienced enough delays, don't you?"

Jeff said nothing, just glowered at him, jaw clenched. Barrett shook his head in mild disapproval.

"Really, Jeff; I did tell you this was inevitable. There's no need to be upset about it."

He drew closer, and Jeff ached to wrap his hands around the man's throat, to choke the smugness from his face. He knew that John would be the one to pay for it though, and he restrained himself.

"I expect a fleet of ships, ultimately, but I want something powerful for your first project," Barrett said. "That green ship of yours - Thunderbird 2, isn't it? Something like that, but faster, with the interior space configured for weapons that can be customized."

A bastardized version of Thunderbird 2, of the ship that Jeff had so lovingly helped design for his gentlest child to help him save lives. Just the thought of it made his heart clench, his stomach turn.

"You shouldn't have to make too many modifications from the original designs," Barrett went on. "I saw the pod configuration system; something like that should do quite nicely."

Jeff blinked. That equipment was kept inside of Thunderbird 2's modules, not visible to anyone from the exterior.

"You _saw_ it?"

"Why, yes. You'd proved to be more uncooperative than I was expecting, you understand, and I was getting tired of waiting, so I started considering replacements. Langstrom Fischler had shown initiative in engineering, so I attended a demonstration of his, a new system he'd designed to alter the weather. Of course, it turned out that Fischler is a complete imbecile, and he very nearly got us all killed. He would've finished the job if International Rescue hadn't shown up."

Jeff could only stare at Barrett for a beat, stunned and speechless. Could he really mean…?

"They saved your life," he whispered. Barrett inclined his head. Jeff felt his hands clench into fists. "My family _saved your miserable life_ , and you turned around and attacked them?"

"Well, how could I not? Quite aside from being further inspired by the design of your ship - it really is a marvel, Jeff, I applaud you - that was when I realized the opportunity I had to provide better incentive for you. I recognized your son, you see." He smiled. "Gordon Tracy. Quite the Olympian, once. And I only saw the pilot briefly, but I heard Gordon calling him Virgil. Not many parents would subject their child to a name like that, and it got me thinking."

Barrett leaned against one of the drafting tables, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked comfortable and relaxed, almost cheerful. He'd won and he knew it, and now he was basking in the victory.

"I had a little chat with Fischler after that," he went on. His lip curled a little in disdain. "Give that man something to talk about, and he'll never shut up. Makes him insufferable, but useful. See, it turns out the moron has needed International Rescue's help on a number of other occasions. So many, in fact, that he's met every single one of their agents."

He gave Jeff a knowing look.

"From there, it was just a matter of planning. It took quite a bit, and even then, the operation quite nearly failed at the eleventh hour. I'd planned on it being the rocket to show up, not one man in a spacesuit."

A chill tore through Jeff, turning his blood to ice.

Barrett must have seen the look in his eyes. He shrugged.

"Well, can you blame me for wanting to get the youngest?" he asked. "How long do you think you could've watched your sixteen-year-old go through what John did? I still maintain that we would have been through with this whole business already if things had gone according to plan."

Jeff's body was shaking from the force of his impotent rage. His jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it, and his nails dug into his palms.

"Still, all's well that ends well," Barrett said, smile returning. "You're actually rather fortunate, you know. I contented myself with just capturing one of your sons. I even kept the wrong one instead of just killing him and going after Alan again."

"And that makes me _fortunate_?" Jeff demanded.

"As a matter of fact, it does. Other people might not have been so restrained."

Before Jeff could ask what that meant, Barrett straightened and began to retreat from the room.

"I'll let you get to work," he said. "I'd advise you not to try to be a hero; John won't thank you for that."

Before he could leave, Jeff called after him, "I want medical treatment for him."

Barrett paused and looked back, unsurprised.

"John will receive treatment as soon as the first machine is operational."

"But these things take weeks to design, much less build!" Jeff said. "You gave John pneumonia, which is bad enough on its own, but then your thugs made it a thousand times worse yesterday. He's got broken ribs, can barely even _breathe_ , and untreated pneumonia puts him at risk for developing sepsis at any time, if he hasn't already. It could kill him in _days_."

"Then I suggest you work quickly."

Christ, he really didn't care, did he? He knew there was no way to do the kind of work he was asking for in just a few days, and he planned on withholding treatment anyway.

Unless…

"If you want results that quickly, then you need to let John help," Jeff said.

Barrett raised an eyebrow.

"Is that so?"

"You said it yourself, the first day you brought him here," Jeff told him. "He's brilliant, and he's the best programmer I know. He also knows the Thunderbird software inside and out, including updates that have been implemented since you brought me here. I'll be twice as fast working with him."

"I saw your son less than an hour ago, Jeff. The boy looks like roadkill. I'm no expert, but I doubt he could pass a year five maths quiz in his condition, much less act as a competent programmer."

That probably wasn't an all too unreasonable assessment, but Jeff still had to try.

"Even on his worst day, John is better than anyone else you'll get," he said. "And like I said, he knows the Thunderbirds' onboard computer systems better than anyone, including me. Give him a chance. I promise you you'll start seeing results sooner."

Barrett studied him carefully, as if searching for the potential trickery in the request.

"He will be monitored constantly," he said. "If he tries anything, you'll both wish he hadn't."

"I'll make sure he behaves," Jeff promised. "But he'll be more useful to you if he's healthy."

"How convenient."

Barrett's expression had turned a little sour, but he clearly appreciated the truth of Jeff's statement. His gaze returned to the window, a trace of hunger flaring in his eyes.

"He'll get pain medication for his ribs," he decided at last. "Wouldn't want him getting distracted. But you have to earn anything else."

His smile returned.

"After all, we can't have you losing your incentive."

* * *

Virgil shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably, shifting in his seat.

"How is it possible that I feel less comfortable in a thousand-dollar tailored suit than I do in full rescue gear with forty pounds of equipment on my back?" he grumbled, tugging at his collar. It was the second suit he'd worn this month, and while this wasn't quite as bad as the press conference, he still felt like he was suffocating.

"You're just not built for the monkey suits and political bullshit," Scott said. "It's not a bad thing."

Virgil cut a glance at his brother. Scott seemed more comfortable in his own dark suit, confident. He looked older, steadier; this was the version of Scott that had taken over Tracy Industries in the midst of turmoil and confusion and managed to guide it back to prosperity, the version that could command the attention of every person in a board room without so much as raising his voice.

That confidence and natural leadership was something Virgil could use a little more of just then.

"Tell me we're not gonna screw this up."

Scott's expression tightened. Both of them had been tense as piano wires for the last two days, ever since the Hood's alarming visit and the subsequent revelations from Alan. Before Scott could respond, a young woman poked her head into the waiting room.

"Mr. Barrett is ready to see you," she said with a bright smile.

Scott and Virgil exchanged one last glance, and stood, following the secretary into a large office. A sharply dressed man in his late forties sat behind a vast glass and mahogany desk, a wall of windows at his back providing a lofty view of the Thames stretching out beyond. Barrett stood, and Virgil began to study him carefully.

It had been a rather extraordinary tale that Alan had shared with his brothers. The Hood had told him of an old partnership, two businessmen with aligned interests and similar morals, who saw the potential advantages in working as a team. Knowing that it would be in their best interests to have at least one good name between them, they'd kept Barrett as squeaky clean as possible and did all of their dirty work under the Hood's name, as well as other aliases and sham organizations. Like Stelair Aeronautics.

Looking at Barrett now, Virgil had a hard time seeing him as someone capable of the kind of atrocities the Hood was so fond of perpetrating. He looked like someone's stepdad; blandly handsome, with salt and pepper hair, grey eyes, stress lines on his brow. He also looked incredibly familiar, although with him being a moderately well known businessman, Virgil supposed that wasn't so surprising.

But there was something in his eyes…

"Mr. Tracy and Mr. Tracy," Barrett greeted with all appearances of warmth. "It's a pleasure to formally meet you."

His hand was dry when Virgil clasped it, his grip firm.

"I was terribly sorry to hear of your brother's death. You have my condolences."

His condolences were among countless others that had flooded in after the press conference. They were the only ones that made the hairs on the back of Virgil's neck stand up though.

Barrett waved them toward chairs clustered around a glass-topped coffee table. Virgil sat on the edge of his seat, tense, but then Scott's foot nudged his. Virgil did his best to mirror his brother's more relaxed bearing.

If he wasn't built for monkey suits and political bullshit, then he _definitely_ wasn't built for espionage. But with the Hood's story had come a warning: Barrett had people in the GDF.

"Can I offer either of you anything to drink?" Barrett asked them.

When Scott and Virgil both politely declined, he sat down in a chair across from theirs. They all surveyed each other for a moment.

"As delightful as it is to have the opportunity to meet two of the reclusive Tracy brothers, I must admit to being somewhat at a loss as to what I can do for you," Barrett said. "I've had some dealings with your father in the past. I don't suppose he's sent you to negotiate about that collaboration I proposed?"

"I'm afraid not," Scott said. "Our father passed away some time ago. We've kept it discreet, you understand."

"I see. Well, you can count on me to keep it to myself. Once again, condolences. Your family really does seem to be having quite the string of bad luck, doesn't it?"

Virgil tensed. Was that a taunt?

He shot a glance at Scott, who had also gone rigid. He began to worry about one of the outbursts Scott was prone to making when his family was threatened. When he replied though, Scott's voice was level.

"So it would seem," he said. "Mr. Barrett, we're here because we were hoping you could help us with something."

Barrett raised an eyebrow.

"Well, I'm not quite sure what it is you think I can do for you, but I will of course be happy to try," he said.

"We're glad to hear it." Scott sat forward in his chair. "Have you heard of a man known as the Hood?"

Subtlety had never been one of Scott's strong suits. In this case though, they'd all agreed beforehand that a direct approach was best. Scott hadn't been able to catch up with the Hood after his visit to Tracy Island, so all they had to go on was what he'd told Alan. It wasn't enough to make any accusations yet, but they were hoping to determine for themselves whether or not there could be any truth to it.

Virgil was watching carefully enough to see the way Barrett froze, just for an instant.

"Well, hasn't everyone?" he said, and his voice sounded no different. "He's the man responsible for that nasty seaquake business last year. Those machines of his did quite a bit of damage to one of my company's oil platforms. The spill took months to clean up."

"We're sorry to hear that," Scott said. "But can you think of any more…personal dealings that you may have had with him?"

Barrett's expression cooled.

"Mr. Tracy, I'm not sure I appreciate where you're going with this."

"We're not accusing you of anything," Virgil said quickly. "It's just that Tracy Industries has also been having some problems with the Hood. Attempted theft, property damage, that kind of thing."

"I see." Barrett still looked wary, but the set of his shoulders had relaxed slightly. "Well, now that you mention it, yes; the Hood has tried to steal from me in the past. He's succeeded a few times as well. I don't know if you remember that incident a few months ago, when the CATCH system went offline and every airplane in the sky was without any guidance for an hour?"

Virgil managed to avoid looking at Scott this time. He remembered the incident well. His big brother had damn near gotten killed right before his very eyes rescuing the pilot of one of those planes.

"It rings a bell," Scott said.

"Well, it turns out that the system was deliberately sabotaged by the Hood, so that he could steal a great deal of alsterene fuel from me. International Rescue went after him, though. They couldn't recover the fuel, but they did manage to keep it out of the Hood's hands."

Virgil hid a grimace. He remembered how close they'd come to losing Kayo with that little stunt. If the Hood hadn't been her uncle, he would have let her crash and burn in the interest of saving the alsterene.

"Well, that's something," he said with an attempt at a smile.

"Indeed." There was a moment of silence as Virgil and Scott tried to figure out how to proceed. Neither of them was exactly skilled in intelligence gathering, but they'd thought it best to come themselves instead of sending Lady Penelope. If Barrett had John's death on his conscience, he would be more likely to react when facing his victim's brothers.

"Mr. Barrett…are you familiar with a company called Stelair Aeronautics?" Scott asked.

Barrett paused. He looked back and forth between the two of them.

"As a matter of fact, I am. Stelair is one of my satellite companies. Why do you ask?"

This, at least, they'd been prepared for.

"Tracy Industries has a number of minor holdings in space," Scott said. "One of our initiatives is cleaning up space junk."

The excuse even had the benefit of being true. Alan still whined about it whenever he got sent on trash duty.

"One of our trash pickups came across a small debris field left behind by the explosion of a Stelair satellite. We recovered some computer circuitry from the wreckage. We wanted to make sure any useful or proprietary information wasn't lost, but we've been having a little trouble finding a point of contact with Stelair."

"I see." Barrett's expression was inscrutable as he sat back, studying Scott. "Well, you've found one. I'm afraid I only recently bought the company, and things aren't as well organized as I'd like yet. We'll get it straightened out."

"We're sure you will," Virgil said with a bland smile. "In the meantime though, where should we send the recovered tech?"

"Oh, no need to return it. I appreciate the thought, but all of our satellites automatically back up to our earthbound servers. I know the incident you're talking about, and there was no data loss."

 _The incident_. Such an innocuous description of something so devastating.

"Nothing too bad, I hope?" Scott said. "No casualties?"

"Actually, I'm sorry to say we lost an astronaut."

"And there was nothing that could be done?" Virgil couldn't help asking, tension humming through him now.

"Evidently not. I've heard that International Rescue actually sent a man after him, but he must have arrived too late."

Virgil felt his jaw go slack.

"But- but the rescuer was all right?" he asked.

"As far as I know, yes. It's been a bit difficult to piece together details, and, well, International Rescue isn't exactly easy to get a hold of unless you've fallen down a well, or something." He gave them a small smile, inviting them to share the joke.

Virgil planted his heel firmly on Scott's foot as he felt his brother tense like a coiled spring. He wasn't much better himself.

"Right," Virgil said, knowing it was well past time to get out of there. "Well, we're sorry to hear about your astronaut, but we're glad you didn't lose any data. We'll just have the debris we collected destroyed and recycled with the rest of the space junk. Thanks for your time."

He stood, pulling Scott up with him. Barrett rose to see them out.

As he was heading out of the seating area, Scott tripped on the tasteful navy carpet, and crashed to his knees. Virgil reached for him, but he was already getting up on his own, brushing himself off.

"I'm fine," he said, waving away his brother. "Guess it's a good thing I didn't have that drink."

It had been a slick maneuver. If Virgil hadn't known about the tiny but powerful listening device beforehand, he never would have noticed Scott pressing it to the underside of the coffee table before he stood.

"It was a pleasure to meet you," Barrett told them at the door, shaking their hands again. "Your father was a friend, so if there's anything I can do for you in the future, please don't hesitate to let me know. I hope for all our sakes that the Hood is apprehended soon."

Virgil managed another smile that set his teeth on edge, and then he and his brother were striding out of the office. Scott managed to keep it together until the elevator.

"John got there too late?" he exploded, shifting from calm CEO to furious brother in the blink of an eye as the doors slid closed behind them. "Did he really just sit there and deny that we lost someone in that explosion too?"

"Not here, Scott," Virgil sighed, glancing around.

He could feel his brother stewing at they made the long trip down from the top floor. There was a park near the Barrett Enterprises building, and Virgil steered them there, where their conversation would be just one more among dozens of anonymous strangers'.

"I don't know what the Hood's game is, but there's definitely something shady about that guy," Scott said. "He said he was a friend of Dad's? That's crap. We knew Dad's friends, and he wasn't one of them. And the only reason he copped to owning Stelair was that he could see we already knew about it from Eos' digging. Did you see how twitchy he got when we asked him about it? He-"

"Scott," Virgil cut in. "You don't have to convince me. I was part of the same conversation you were."

Scott let out an explosive breath of air. He picked up his pace, his fists opening and closing with useless energy.

"I know," he said. "It's just- what the hell does this all _mean_? That the Hood was telling the truth? That would be a first."

"Just because we could tell there was something off about Barrett, doesn't mean he did what the Hood said."

"You mean murder our brother?" Scott drew to a halt and rounded on Virgil, his eyes wild. "I mean, that's what we're talking about, right? We think this guy may have _murdered John_."

Virgil swallowed hard.

"We can't know that, Scott," he said. "Maybe they're just trying to cover up an accident. And I'm not saying that means he should get off the hook," he hurried to add when he could see another explosion building in Scott. "But you also can't charge back in there with torches and pitchforks before we understand the situation completely, or we'll lose credibility, and put the anonymity of International Rescue at risk. That's why we planted the listening device."

Scott stared at him for a moment, before deflating slightly. He shook his head.

"How are you so calm about this?" he asked.

Virgil looked away. In the distance, he could see a couple of kids chasing each other around a fountain, a dog sniffing at a dropped ice cream cone, pigeons flocking around an old lady tossing out breadcrumbs.

"Scott, I may have just shaken hands with my twin's murderer," he said, his voice even. "I promise you, I'm not calm."

Scott blinked, and his expression softened. He let out a weary sigh.

"Come on, little brother," he said, wrapping an arm around Virgil's shoulders. "Let's go home."

* * *

John had the dubious privilege of knowing what it was like to experience gravity at 25 times its normal strength. He knew what it was like to feel as if he was being crushed by reality itself, the life being pressed out of him. He'd never thought he would have to feel the same way when he was back on solid ground. And yet.

There was the physical pressure of course, the weight of the fluid in and around his lungs squeezing the air from him, but it was so much more than that. There was always an IV in his arm now, delivering a constant supply of something that had eased the pain in his ribs, helped to clear the fog from his mind, eased the physical burden a little. But his time was now spent in a computer lab working for the face of evil, every second spent under the watchful eye of one of Barrett's men. Each day, the weight of the lives he was endangering settled more heavily on him, until it wasn't just the pneumonia that made it difficult to breathe.

He'd tried his best to resist, but it had only taken one failed attempt at building a timed kill code into the software for the new ship to make John realize that his babysitter actually knew a thing or two about computers. Despite having well and truly lost the battle though, John wasn't giving up the war just yet.

So every day became a battle of its own. His every keystroke was watched, so it had therefore been up to him to take a subtler approach, finding other ways to sabotage the equipment that would be harder to detect. Under other circumstances, he might have enjoyed the challenge, but with this work, knowing what the stakes were, feeling his body continuing to deteriorate, that was out of the question.

On day…well, he'd really stopped counting, at this point, John was so absorbed in his own predicament that he didn't notice that his wasn't the only immune system that was losing the good fight. Until, that is, he heard the unmistakeable sounds of retching from behind him, and turned in time to see his usual guard bestowing his breakfast upon a patch of floor beside the exit.

Even as John recoiled in disgust, he was filled with an unfamiliar surge of hope. If the guard stepped out for just a few minutes, maybe he could figure out a way to-

But the man was already talking into his mic, summoning reinforcements. It was less than a minute before a new guard was arriving, and another minute before the woman in the lab coat and a man with cleaning supplies followed. They had the unfortunate man and his mess collected and bundled off with rapid efficiency, and then John was left alone with his new overseer.

The man was younger than most of the others, maybe Gordon's age. John thought he'd seen him a few times before, but it was hard to be sure. The young man's dark gaze was unreadable as it swept over John, taking in the pallor of his skin, the fevered sweat on his brow, the needle in his arm.

John didn't pay him much attention, just turned back to his console. He worked in silence for awhile, reconfiguring the customization software for a weapons module. This one would leave the firing pins out of everything it assembled. It wouldn't make Barrett's threats any less alarming, but it would hopefully minimize any actual damage he could do if he tried to carry them out.

John tried to ignore the tingling pressure in his chest for as long as he could, but it still wasn't long at all before a cough exploded from him. Even with the paltry cocktail of medications that was dripping into him, he was still getting worse, and coughing _hurt_. Once he'd started though, he couldn't stop, sucking in desperate, gasping breaths as he tried to fill lungs that were already filling with liquid. It felt a little like drowning again, and he had to fight down the panic that tried to join the pneumonia in suffocating him.

He felt something spatter his arm, saw a flash of red. And still he couldn't stop coughing, his chest burning and his head starting to swim. He felt a hesitant touch on his shoulder, and then a scrap of tissue was being pressed into his hand. John coughed into it, until at long last, his breathing began to ease. His eyes were watering, and he squeezed them shut as he tried to catch what little breath he could.

After a minute, he realized there was still a hand on his shoulder. He tensed, turning his head to see the new guard standing over him. The man was watching him intently, but John still couldn't read his expression.

"Were you really with International Rescue?"

John blinked. The guards rarely talked to him at all, and when they did, it certainly wasn't regarding his rescue work. Of course, they also didn't usually give him tissues to cough into, so they were in unfamiliar territory all around.

"Yeah," he said, when it became clear that he was actually expected to answer. "Yeah, I was."

And - wow, he'd never had to use the past tense for that. He hadn't been prepared for how much it would hurt.

"You were the one up in space, right? The one who talked to people while the others helped them?"

John raised an eyebrow. That wasn't exactly how he would have described his role in International Rescue, but he supposed it wasn't altogether inaccurate.

"That's me," he said cautiously. A shiver swept through him, making his teeth rattle.

The man was silent for a moment. Then he shrugged out of his standard black jacket and draped it over John's shoulders.

At John's baffled look, he said, "I have a little sister. Elena."

His gaze went distant. John felt like replying that two could play at that game, that he had two little brothers, and didn't see how either piece of information was relevant. Something told him that patience was his best course of action here though.

"Six months ago, she was caught in a landslide while she was out hiking," the man went on after a moment. "She got lucky, if you can call it that. Got buried alive instead of crushed. She could barely move, couldn't see anything. She's claustrophobic, you know? She was terrified."

The guard's expression was tight, his fingers curling into fists and then relaxing again in a cycle he didn't even seem to be aware of.

"But she got a call after less than a minute, from International Rescue. She said even though it took hours to be rescued, the man on the phone never hung up, and kept talking to her, making sure she knew she wasn't alone. She said it kept her sane."

John struggled to think back. Once upon a time, he'd remembered every rescue, but his illness had sapped his focus, carved holes in his brain. Even with what he was fairly certain was some kind of amphetamine sharpening his mind, it was a long moment before he could say, "Elena…Morales? That's your sister?"

"You remember her?"

"I remember she was brave."

John kept racking his brain. Elena Morales. It had only been a few months before John was kidnapped that Thunderbird 5's sensors had alerted him to a nasty rockslide in the Pyrenees. A quick scan of the area had yielded only a single electronic signal, Elena's phone. He remembered calling her, remembered the simultaneous relief at having her answer, and dismay at how very young she'd sounded when she had.

"She talked about you," John recalled slowly. "I…I was trying to keep her mind off of what was happening, so I asked her to talk about something good. The first thing she thought of was you."

He frowned. She'd told him, he knew she'd told him…

"Lucas?" he guessed. The guard nodded. "She said that you dropped out of school to raise her after your parents died, and that you worked three jobs to support her and your other sister…Violet?"

"Valery," Lucas corrected, his expression unreadable.

He looked away.

"I've just tried to do right by them," he said, almost as much to himself as to John. "This job, the pay…I didn't know…"

Silence fell for a moment. John waited, unsure how to fill it. He could certainly understand wanting to protect one's siblings, but if Lucas was seeking forgiveness for what he was complicit in, John didn't think he could manage that.

"I've got a little brother Elena's age," he said at last. "Alan."

Lucas' shoulders tensed. He still didn't look at John.

"He was the sweetest baby, always happy about something," John went on, driven by some unnamable instinct. "When he got a little bigger, he used to follow me around, all the time. It annoyed the living daylights out of me, sometimes, but it was also kind of this honor, you know? Like, out of everyone, he picked me to tag along with."

John hadn't talked this much in days, and he had to cough for a painful minute before he could go on.

"I used to take him out stargazing. He was so funny; he was always chattering about something, but get him looking up at the stars, and he would just go so quiet. His little eyes would get so big…"

John looked down at the bloodstained tissue in his hand. He missed his little brother with sudden, breathtaking intensity.

"I always did the best I could to look after him, and the rest of my family. But I've always figured…the best thing I can do for him is be someone he can be proud to call his brother."

Silence fell after that. John waited, although for what, he wasn't sure.

"I'm going to get a cup of coffee," Lucas said quietly. "Can I get you anything?"

John could only stare for a long moment. Was he really…?

"I- no," he said, stumbling over the words in his haste. "I'm all right. Thank you."

Lucas nodded and strode to the door, keying in an access code. And then he was gone.

John wasted a few precious seconds staring after him, dumbfounded. But then he shook himself and turned back to the computer, doing his best to clear the fog from his mind as he began to explore the system, looking for access to something that he could use to his advantage.

The computer he was working on was fairly well isolated. It wasn't configured for access to the internet or any other communications network, and no amount of technical finagling on John's part could change that. He couldn't get a message out, couldn't alert his brothers or Eos. But with a little work… _yes_ , he had access to the rest of the systems in the facility. Maybe he could-

His fingers froze over the keyboard as he stared, horror beginning to spread through him like ice.

Dad had been right all those weeks ago when he'd said that the facility must have been well-hidden. But it wasn't on the moon, like he'd suggested. It was somewhere far, _far_ worse.

John's lungs burned as he began to gasp, his heart thundering in his chest. He gulped at the air, but couldn't seem to draw in any oxygen. His head spun, his vision going dark, until he was back on that table, and the water was everywhere, in his mouth, his nose, his throat, choking him, smothering him, _killing_ him-

 _"Breathe, John."_ How many times had Dad said that to him? Enough for him to be able to hear the words in his head now. _"Just breathe."_

Breathing was no simple task these days, but John tried to tamp down on the panic. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at the evidence of his predicament, did his best to level out his breathing without coughing up more blood. He clutched Lucas' jacket to him as he shuddered, trying to hold himself together.

This couldn't change anything. He couldn't waste this chance.

He opened his eyes and returned to the computer. His hands were unsteady, and his movements less precise than they should have been, but he still resumed his careful search of the network, looking for flaws, for weak points. The system had clearly been designed for security. Everything had been partitioned, no single network had access to or control over everything. John's computer was linked into the facility's basic operations: lights and heat and…and the power grid.

Ever the strategist, an idea began to form in John's mind. He'd been hoping for a means of escape, but that didn't look possible now. It wouldn't be a matter of simply hopping a fence and finding the nearest road. No, if he wanted to stop Barrett, it was going to have to be with the understanding that he might not live to see it.

And not just him.

They'd barely let him see Dad since they'd started their work, perhaps worried that the two of them would contrive some way to sabotage the project. They were still kept in the same cell, but their working shifts had been staggered, so that they were returned to it at different times, barely overlapping. John liked to think that Dad had a plan, that he was just biding his time before he executed his strategy. But from the way Dad looked at him, the few times they'd seen each other in passing…somehow, he doubted it. It was up to him now.

 _The best thing I can do for him is be someone he can be proud to call his big brother._

Almost without thinking about it, John resumed his work, putting his plan into motion. It might mean he never got to see Alan again, or Gordon, or Scott or Virgil or anyone else he loved, but it would mean that he'd made the world safer for them. That would have to be enough.

It didn't take long to set everything up, ready for one final command. His hands began to shake as they hovered over the controls, hesitating.

He could feel the sickness in his body, as if he were rotting from the inside. His fever was only getting worse, and soon, not even whatever they were giving him to keep his pain at bay and his brain sharp would be enough. He didn't have time to waste, couldn't talk to Dad and figure out a different plan. He had to act now, before Lucas came back, before he could no longer trust his own mind.

Maybe Dad would be able to get out. He was healthy, and brilliant, and resourceful, and he could figure out a way to save himself. He had to.

John fumbled for his IV, yanking it from his arm. Perhaps he would miss it soon, but he wanted this action to be his alone, to be free in the only senses possible while he made it.

He entered in the last sequence.

For a long moment, nothing happened. The door opened, and Lucas returned, coffee in hand. He gave John a quizzical look, but said nothing.

Then the room was plunged into abrupt, absolute darkness.

 _"Warning: critical power failure. Failure of life support systems imminent."_

He'd done it. For better or worse, he'd done it.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** *Cue dramatic music* Anyway, the rescue Barrett tells Jeff about is from the episode _Weather or Not _, but Barrett isn't supposed to be either of the two men shown in that episode; he's just tagging along for the ride._

 _Thanks for the lovely support of this story so far!_


	11. Farewells and Forewarnings

Jeff was being led from the engineering room back to his cell when all of the lights went off in a single, blinding instant. If that was alarming, it was nothing compared to the computerized voice telling them that they were about to lose their life support systems.

What followed were twenty minutes of absolute chaos. Red emergency lights came on, bathing everything in an eerie glow as his two guards tried to figure out what the hell was happening and what they were supposed to do about it. The temperature began to drop noticeably, and warnings kept blaring over the speakers, but no instructions. When the guards tried to drag Jeff along some pre-planned evacuation route, they kept encountering doors that refused to open, either without power or locked by some security protocol. Jeff almost managed to slip away in the confusion, but he was snatched before he could get far.

Before long, Barrett appeared and stalked towards him, looking like a demon in the crimson light.

"What did you do?" he demanded.

Jeff gave him a bland look.

"Mechanical trouble?" he asked.

Barrett's expression contorted in fury.

"I don't know what you did, Tracy," he hissed, leaning into Jeff's space. "But I-"

He broke off, pressing a hand to his ear. His rage only seemed to grow as he listened.

"How is it," he said to Jeff, "that your children manage to be even more infuriating than you are?"

Jeff's eyes widened as he began to understand. John must be behind this. Somehow, he must have managed to hack the computer system, cause some kind of catastrophic malfunction.

"Not more infuriating," he said with proud satisfaction. "Just smarter and braver."

Barrett punched him, but Jeff had trouble caring.

"John's dead," Barrett snapped. "Dead, do you understand me? I'm going to drown him like the rat he is."

The wild light in his eyes said he wasn't bluffing. Jeff launched himself at Barrett, catching his guards so much by surprise that he managed to break free of them. He tackled Barrett to the ground, but before he could get more than two hits in, the guards were pulling him back. Barrett got up and ran, leaving Jeff to his men.

He fought them now, fought them as he'd never allowed himself to before. He fought so hard that he didn't even notice the water until he delivered a blow to the jaw of one of the guards that sent him dropping like a rock, and he _splashed_ when he hit the floor. Jeff and the remaining guard both looked down, staring blankly at the inch of water that was now lapping at their feet.

The guard blanched, and for a moment, Jeff thought he might make a run for it. But then he lunged for Jeff again, and his attack was all the more fierce now. Jeff was fighting harder now too though, a terrible suspicion making him that much more desperate. He had to find John, had to get him out of here, had to-

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?"

That voice, instantly recognizable, distracted Jeff for just an instant. The butt of a handgun slammed into his temple, and his knees buckled beneath him.

"Hey, knock it- _whoa_."

The change in tone reached Jeff even through the ringing haze that was now clouding his brain, and he forced his head up. He took in the instinctively raised hands, the shocked expression, the fear that was just starting to flash through familiar eyes. But Jeff noted all of that in just a fraction of a second, because his gaze was then immediately drawn to the gun that was aimed at his son's heart.

* * *

One grey morning nearly two months after John's death found what was left of the Tracy family at the Creighton-Ward estate, preparing to send off their brother with a proper memorial. It was raining, which maybe should have been poetic, but was really just depressing.

The service had been Lady Penelope's idea. She'd been missing John as fiercely as the rest of them, and she thought a memorial might help them all heal, give them as much closure as possible without understanding what had happened to him. When the brothers had balked at the idea, she'd pointed out that it would also help to ease any suspicions Barrett may have had that they were onto him, if nothing else.

They'd been continuing their investigation into the shady businessman, but their little eavesdropping attempt had yet to yield anything particularly helpful. All they'd managed to ascertain was that Barrett spent a lot of time outside of his office. Lady Penelope had been conducting an investigation of her own through her unique channels, but so far all she'd been able to come up with were vague rumors. They needed to get Barrett's guard down.

So, there they were, scattered around the entrance hall in their dark suits as they greeted arriving guests. For all that John had kept to himself a lot growing up, and spent most of his adult life in space, it was still a fairly large crowd that was gathering. There were friends from Harvard, from NASA, as well as professors and CO's. There were a few of John's favorite students, from his time as a guest lecturer, and some faculty colleagues as well. There was extended family, normally scattered across the globe. There were others who had cared for John, who would miss him.

Ridley O'Bannon was there, and Colonel Casey. A few of Scott's old Air Force buddies attended in support for him, decked out in their dress uniforms as a sign of respect. Gordon's two best friends from Team USA had done the same for him, although they'd thankfully foregone their bathing suits in favor of more formal attire. Even Virgil's ex was there in support.

People kept coming up to Gordon to offer their condolences. He knew they meant well, but his grief was quite enough on its own, thank you; he didn't need a bunch of other people trying to shove theirs off onto him too. He didn't need adults he barely knew telling him that it was just _such_ a _shame_ , that John had been so _young_ and _bright_ , that he'd been cheated out of so much _life_.

Just when Gordon thought he might actually go insane, Lady Penelope appeared at his side. She didn't say anything at first, just stood beside him, warding off potential visitors with her presence and giving him a chance to simply breathe.

"John would've hated this," he said after a moment, looking around at all of the people assembled for the express purpose of making a fuss about his most introverted brother. Realizing that had probably sounded ungrateful, what with all the work Penelope must have put into organizing it, he hastened to add, "I mean, it's nice, but-"

"No, you're quite right," Penelope said with a small smile. "John did so loathe being the center of attention. I once teased him about throwing him a party when he returned from his first NASA mission, and his exact words were 'over my dead body.'"

"That dramatic bastard," Gordon sighed. "He just _had_ to go and prove his point, didn't he?"

"Quite like him, when you think about it," Penelope agreed.

They lapsed into silence for a minute, studying the crowd. Everyone was wearing dark colors and somber expressions, their reason for being there impossible to ignore. It really hit Gordon then, that he was at a funeral, his _brother's_ funeral.

"I don't know if I can do this," he heard himself murmur.

Penelope's gorgeous eyes were just a little brighter than usual, like liquid crystal. She took Gordon's hand in both of hers and squeezed it gently.

"I know you can," she said.

And then she drew him close, and folded him into a hug. Surprised by the simple gesture, and how much it undid him, he hugged her back, tucking his chin over her shoulder and closing his eyes.

 _"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I'm afraid we have a situation."_

Gordon opened his eyes with a sigh, letting go of Penelope to raise a hand to his ear, where he was wearing his tiny portable comm.

"Can it wait, EOS?" he asked.

 _"I wouldn't be calling if it could,"_ she replied. _"There's been some kind of accident at an underwater research facility in the North Sea. It's flooding with water, and personnel are trapped inside."_

Yeah, that definitely didn't sound like something that could wait. Penelope had still been standing close enough to hear EOS, and she raised her hand to Gordon's cheek.

"It's all right," she told him. "I'm quite certain John would understand."

Gordon couldn't muster up the will to argue with her. He'd been dreading the service anyway.

He stood on his toes to find his brothers. Scott was already moving towards him, and Virgil was excusing himself from Akil, passing him off to Grandma Tracy instead.

 _"Do you need me?"_ Alan asked over the comms.

 _"How big is the facility?"_ Virgil asked.

 _"I'm still trying to find registered schematics, but my scans suggest that it's quite large,"_ EOS told them. _"It would be a good idea to bring all hands."_

So Alan emerged from the crowd as well, and the four brothers made their way out of the grand mansion, Kayo joining them on the way. They'd staged their ships a discreet distance from the Creighton-Ward mansion, but Penelope must have dispatched Parker, because he showed up in FAB-1 to collect them the moment they made it outside. They all piled into the car with no small degree of difficulty, as FAB-1 was very much not designed to hold five and a half grown people. The drive was mercifully short, and then they were all heading for their respective Thunderbirds.

Virgil took the pilot's seat of Thunderbird 2 while Alan and Gordon changed hastily from their formalwear into the uniforms in which they were both far more comfortable. Gordon was still trying to tug his left boot on when EOS' voice came over the comms again, warning them of a new situation that was developing, a rogue defense drone that had somehow become confused about the distinction between protecting a city and attacking it. Kayo peeled off to deal with that, no doubt excited at the chance to really test her flying.

"When it rains, it pours, huh?" Virgil said to Gordon.

Unfortunately, his words turned out to be a little more prophetic than any of them would have liked. The skies overhead had been drizzling light rain on them all day, but as they flew the drizzle turned into a relentless deluge, those skies growing darker and more violent. A glance at the horizon showed that the sea was churning, massive waves crashing. Virgil's hands were tight on the controls as winds buffeted his ship. He refused to let go of them so that he could change into his own uniform.

"We're not gonna be able to do a standard launch," he told his brothers. "If I drop Thunderbird 4's module in this, it's gonna get damaged."

Gordon nodded. It wasn't as easy or safe to launch directly from Thunderbird 2, but he could do it.

 _"I've arrived at the facility's coordinates,"_ Scott said from Thunderbird 1. _"The sea's pretty rough, but that's about all I can tell you from here. My sensors can't penetrate deep enough to reach the facility. EOS, what are we heading into?"_

 _"I'm still trying to determine that,"_ EOS said. _"My scans indicate some kind of catastrophic computer failure that overloaded the power grid and caused the facility's maintenance systems to stop working, which seems to have resulted in a massive influx of water. Thunderbird 4 may be able to repair the damage in time, but an evacuation will probably be necessary. But I'm having trouble learning more, because I've been trying to raise a response for the last twenty minutes. I think I'm getting through, but either no one can hear me, or they're not answering."_

Gordon looked over in time to catch Virgil's small frown. This wasn't normal.

"Maybe they're busy trying to patch the leak, or something," Alan suggested, poking his head forward from his seat behind Virgil.

"Yeah, maybe," Virgil said, although he didn't sound convinced. "EOS, keep trying. We're about five minutes out. I don't want to send Thunderbird 4 in blind, but it's what we're gonna have to do if we haven't heard from them by then."

Gordon and Alan nodded. Scott, though, didn't seem to share their sentiments.

 _"I don't like this,"_ he said. _"EOS, what exactly is this facility?"_

 _"I've been trying to find that out. Its records indicate that it's been in operation for a little over two years, and it appears to be dedicated to mechanical research. In that time though, it has failed to yield any appreciable results. The plans I have access to were filed by a corporation that doesn't seem to exist."_

An uneasy silence descended. They'd all had just a little too much experience with shadow corporations.

"Sounds like it might be a cover for something," Virgil said at last, stating the obvious. "EOS, could you alert the GDF, just in case?"

 _"I already did, when you were leaving the funeral. I'll call them back and have them formally dispatch to your location."_

 _"I don't want any of you going in until they get there,"_ said Scott.

"What?" Gordon protested. "No! Obviously this looks shady, but we don't know for sure that anything's off, and even if it is, this wouldn't be the first time we've had to rescue people who got themselves in trouble doing something illegal."

 _"And we'll rescue these people too, but not until the GDF arrives to back you up."_

 _"The facility might not have that kind of time,"_ EOS chimed in. _"My scans suggest- wait!"_

"Wait, what?" Alan asked.

 _"The emergency alarm just stopped transmitting. It's still functional, but someone must have turned it off."_

"So…false alarm?" Gordon asked.

 _"Negative. Water is still flooding into the facility, and the structural damage appears to be worsening."_

"And you still haven't been able to get anyone to respond to you?" Virgil asked.

 _"No."_

The three brothers in Thunderbird 2 looked around at each other uncertainly.

 _"Virgil."_ Scott's voice sounded odd. He hadn't projected his image to accompany his audio call, so they couldn't see his face. _"Stop. We're waiting."_

Virgil looked at Gordon. Nothing needed to be said.

"No." Virgil checked his nav system, confirming their course. "I hear you, Scott, but we have to do this."

Scott said nothing, and Gordon thought that might be it. But then Virgil yelped and yanked back on the thrusters as a massive silver shape dropped from above and hovered in their path. Thunderbird 2 came to an abrupt halt an inadvisable mere ten meters from the red nose cone of Thunderbird 1.

"What the _hell_ , Scott?" Virgil demanded, startled from his usual state of calm. He'd never appreciated potential threats to his ship.

Gordon couldn't help staring in shock at Thunderbird 1. He hadn't thought he'd live to see the day _Scott_ was trying to hold _Virgil_ back from action. Squinting through the driving rain, he could just see across the distance and through to his stony-faced brother in the cockpit of his rocket. Scott, who'd never met a challenge he backed away from, whose bravery had drawn him to the Air Force and then into a harrowing rescue business, who could be as volatile as the rocket he piloted, was trying to force them to stand down.

Judging by the way Virgil's expression set, his shoulders stiffening, it was going to go about as well as it usually did when it was the other way around. Virgil was a team player, a peacemaker, but that didn't mean he was any better at taking orders than the rest of his brothers.

"Seriously?" he demanded. "Get out of the way."

 _"The last time one of us went on a shady rescue, we lost John,"_ Scott said flatly. _"I'm not risking the rest of you."_

Gordon snuck a look over at his other elder brother. Virgil's hands were tight on the controls, his jaw set and his eyes dark. He met Gordon's gaze for a fraction of an instant before his eyes darted to Alan and then back to Scott.

"We lost John because he cared more about saving lives than protecting his own. How can we do differently?"

Virgil looked at Gordon again. Gordon nodded and stood.

"Come on, Alan," he murmured, nudging his little brother's shoulder. "Let's get ready to launch."

Even if Scott was determined to stop Thunderbird 2 from going to the exact coordinates of the rescue site, he couldn't stop Thunderbird 4 from launching. They were close enough that it would only take the small but powerful submarine a few minutes longer to get there.

Alan looked up at Gordon with wide eyes, uncertain. The kid was brave and mischievous, but for all his desire for autonomy and independence, it wasn't often that he directly rebelled against Scott. Not with the important things, anyway.

 _"Virgil."_ Gordon had expected Scott to get angry, but instead he just sounded scared. _"Virgil, please. I can't- I can't lose-"_

"Hey, you won't, Scott," Virgil promised, his tone gentler now. "Have a little faith in your family, all right? John…" He took a deep breath. "John was alone, but we aren't. Whatever happens, we're still stronger together, and we always will be. Whatever this is - and it could be nothing - we'll get each other through it."

Scott stared at them all for a long moment. Gordon couldn't speak for his brothers, but his throat was tight and aching. John would have been proud of them, he knew. He just wished that he _could_ have been.

 _"Just be_ careful _,"_ Scott pleaded at last, and then Thunderbird 1 was rising out of their path.

"F.A.B. Scott."

A few minutes later, Gordon was guiding Thunderbird 4 down through the murky depths to the facility on the ocean floor. The structure had been built in concentric partitions, presumably in case something like this ever happened. Some sections had visibly collapsed from the pressure, but others were still standing, flooding more slowly.

Gordon guided Thunderbird 4 to an access port in one of the most protected sections, hopefully the last to flood. He checked to make sure that Alan had his helmet clipped to his belt and a full air pack on his back, before letting them both out into the facility.

Well, Gordon had another place to add to the creepy list. The power was out, and some kind of emergency lighting system was bathing everything in a hellish red glow. The hallways were stark and cold, and there wasn't a soul in sight. He felt Alan shift just a little closer to him. Much as Gordon understood the instinct though, they couldn't take the time to do this together.

They split up, Alan in order to find a control or computer room, where he would hopefully be able to slow the damage and save at least part of the structure, and Gordon to search for survivors to evacuate.

Five minutes into his search though, he hadn't found a soul. There were plenty of places to look; the branching hallways were lined with doors, each leading to storage rooms or labs or sleeping quarters. He checked every one of them, but they were all empty. Perhaps the place had been mostly abandoned, although someone must have been there to turn off the alarm.

EOS had said this place was a mechanical research facility. If the equipment Gordon could see in the rooms he poked his head into was any indication, there was some truth to that. But almost everything had a strangely disused, neglected quality to it. The rooms were pristine, untouched, with plastic sheets over half of the equipment.

One room had nothing in it but a padded black bench along one wall, with a small bathroom attached. It smelled faintly of sweat and vomit and illness, and there were dark flecks on the floor, their color impossible to make out under the crimson emergency lights. Still, he felt a chill creep up his spine as he looked at them. He left the instant he'd made sure there was no one in it.

A few doors later, he came across an even more unsettling room. This one was nearly as barren as the other, containing nothing but an elevated metal table, and what looked like a hospital crash cart, with a defibrillator and drawers for various drugs. There was a drain in the floor, a row of plastic water jugs along the wall next to a sink. What looked like a camera was mounted in the middle of the ceiling, aimed at the table.

Gordon might have convinced himself that it was some kind of medical examination room, if not for the thick cuffs embedded in the surface of the table.

 _"Gordon, status report."_

Gordon nearly jumped out of his custom blue wetsuit. He clutched his chest, backing out of the disturbing room. It would have been pretty ironic if, after all of Scott's worrying and fussing, he gave his little brother a heart attack.

"I haven't found anyone yet," he reported as he continued down the hallway. "But something is definitely off about this place."

 _"Well, something's about to be more off soon,"_ Scott told him, voice tight. _"EOS says that the section you're in just started to flood. Get a move on."_

Gordon might have put more thought into a snarky reply, had he not been growing steadily more freaked out. He would be happy to see the end of this rescue. At this rate, they might have been better off at John's funeral.

It wasn't long before he heard the first trickle of water, spotted the leaks that had appeared in the ceiling, the walls. He picked up his pace, and soon he was splashing through shallow water as he continued to move through hallways. He'd been calling out as he went before, but now he found it harder to shout into that ominous silence. So he just listened instead, and at last he heard the first sounds of actual life in this place: grunts and thumps and loud splashing.

He started running, and he rounded a corner to see two figures grappling with each other, locked in an intense struggle. Another seemed to be lying on the floor.

"Hey!" Gordon shouted at them. Perhaps not his most well thought out tactic, but he was a little stressed. "What do you think you're doing?"

In hindsight, he really should have noticed the gun sooner.

* * *

Jeff was exhausted and hurting and possibly concussed, but none of that mattered. Nothing mattered but the sight of Gordon, unarmed and defenseless, frozen before the gun that was leveled at his chest.

Gravity felt five times too strong, but Jeff pushed himself off the ground in an instant, not taking the time to get to his feet before he launched himself at the guard, slamming into his knees and sending them both splashing to the cold floor. The guard did what any man with a gun in his hand might do when tackled by a pissed off and protective father; he started shooting. But so long as it wasn't at Gordon, Jeff didn't care where the bullets flew.

A blue-booted foot came swinging out of nowhere, connecting quite solidly with the guard's head. The fight pretty summarily ended at that point.

Jeff's lightheadedness and exhaustion returned with a vengeance, and he let himself slump to the ground beside his unconscious opponent, water lapping at the side of his face. What he'd been through would've been hard on even a young man, and he hadn't been one of those in far too long.

"Alan, be careful," he heard Gordon saying. "There are people with guns down here."

Jeff couldn't quite make out the tinny voice that answered over the comm, but it didn't sound like Alan.

"No, Scott- _Scott_ , just listen, I'm fine. You can't come down here, we're a hundred meters deep; you'd be crushed if you tried- No, we can't leave yet, there are still people down here, and I think some of them might be prisoners or test subjects or something. What? Sc- think - eaking up - can't - losing-"

His comm shut off with a beep. Jeff could only imagine the look on his eldest's face.

"Hey buddy, are you hit?"

Gordon's concerned voice was the only warning Jeff had before he was being dragged away from the guard and turned on his back. He blinked up at the figure leaning over him, meeting a familiar set of amber eyes. Despite everything, he felt something in his chest warm a little, his eyes stinging. Two years had been far too long; he'd _missed_ this boy.

But then Gordon was staggering back from him, the blood draining from his face. Jeff sat up with effort, facing his alarmed son.

"Easy, Gordon," he said. "It's all right."

Gordon's eyes were wide and disbelieving, his lower lip trembling slightly. Then his expression hardened, and he reeled back another step.

"Is this some kind of trick?" he demanded, raising his hands once more to defend himself. "Is that you, Hood? You think you can beat us by disguising yourself as him? Well, it's not gonna work, you fucking bastard."

Jeff ached to see the most open and gregarious of his sons, once so vibrant and easygoing, now so guarded and suspicious. He hated that it was for good reason.

He lifted his hands in a gesture of peace. He held Gordon's gaze, seeing through the bold defiance there to the hurting boy underneath. If it had been a trick, it would have been an unconscionably cruel one.

"It's me, Captain Nemo," he said, remembering a long ago day when his water-loving little boy had decided that he wanted to be the captain of a boat like the famous anti-hero from his favorite bedtime story, and insisted that his family address him accordingly.

Gordon's eyes widened at the nickname. His hands dropped to his sides and he stared, emotions flickering across his face too quickly to read. He dropped to his knees beside Jeff, still just staring. He began to shake, reaching out an unsteady hand to touch his father's arm.

"Dad?" he whispered, sounding younger than before. "But you're not…you can't… _Dad?"_

Jeff mustered up a small smile for him, and let himself tug Gordon close for a hug that could only last a second.

"Gordon, I know nothing makes sense right now, but I need you to keep it together for me, okay?" He didn't wait for a response. "Where are your brothers?"

Gordon seemed to snap just a little bit out of his stupor at the authoritative note he'd injected into his tone.

"Alan's down here with me, looking for other survivors. Virgil's topside with Thunderbird 2, and Scott is our acting mission command from Thunderbird 1." Gordon abruptly paled, raising a hand to his mouth. "Dad. _Dad_."

The break in his voice struck Jeff like a bullet.

"We- we lost…" He gulped, his amber eyes starting to shine.

"John. I know. He's-"

"Wait, _Dad_. Oh God, you _are_ hit!"

Jeff looked down as Gordon grabbed at him urgently. Sure enough, there was an ominous stain spreading slowly across the fabric over his thigh, pain he hadn't noticed before throbbing to life. He swore. They didn't have time for this.

He grabbed the gun that had been used to shoot him, and tucked it into his waistband.

"Help me up," he said, tugging Gordon closer so that he could loop an arm around his shoulders.

"Are you sure you can-?"

"We don't have a choice. This place is underwater, right? And it's flooding?"

"Yeah, that's why we're here. Whole parts of it are already completely flooded."

"Then I guess we'd better get moving."

Without further protest, Gordon hauled him to his feet. The aquanaut may have been the shortest of Jeff's sons, but he was strong, and he didn't waver under his father's weight. And he had to carry a lot of it. The bullet must have nicked Jeff's femur, from the white-hot bolts of pain that shot up his leg.

"I've got you, Dad," Gordon muttered as he started to support his father down the hallway. "We'll get you out."

"No, we can't leave yet," Jeff said at once. "We have to find your brothers."

"It's just Alan down here, and he knows what he's doing."

"Maybe he does, but he doesn't know what _they're_ doing. And it's not just-"

 _"G-guys?"_ Alan's voice sounded different, deepened by time and distorted by the comms, but Jeff recognized it at once. _"Guys, I-I think- oh my God. Oh my God, John! John, he's-!"_

Gordon lurched to a dead standstill, turning wide eyes on Jeff.

 _"Alan?"_ That was Scott's voice now, sounding just a touch less steady than Jeff remembered. _"Alan, what-?"_

 _"Hey, hey, I've got you. I've got you,"_ Alan was saying in a trembling but gentle voice, and Jeff knew that the words weren't directed at anyone listening over the comms. _"No, hey- GORDON! Gordon, I need your help! I found John, but something's wrong with him, he's covered in blood and barely awake and I can't move him on my own!"_

"Dad?" Gordon whispered questioningly. He was shaking again.

"It's him, Gordy," Jeff promised. "He's got severe pneumonia, from-" he hesitated, loathe to burden Gordon with the knowledge of what had been done to his brother. But they would need to know the details of John's illness if they were going to treat him effectively. "From waterboarding," he finished reluctantly. "Broken ribs, too."

Gordon just stared at him blankly, evidently refusing to process the reality of that. Jeff supposed it was enough to overwhelm the strongest psyche, finding out that one's dead father and brother were still alive. Anything else on top of that would take time to compute.

But time was something they didn't have.

"Go help your brothers," he ordered, shrugging out of Gordon's hold and staggering to the side of the corridor. Gordon tried to catch him, to hold him up instead of letting him slide down the wall, but Jeff waved him off. "John's in worse shape than me, and I'm only slowing you down," he said. "Go help them, and come back for me later."

He almost added _if there's time_ , but he caught himself. He knew Gordon wouldn't leave if he thought it meant abandoning him permanently. Even so, Gordon hesitated, his wide eyes raking over Jeff's body.

"Take this," Jeff told him, pressing the gun into his son's hand, hating that he had to do it. "There are some bad people down here, and they won't hesitate to hurt you or your brothers."

"But Dad, you're hurt-"

"And John is worse," Jeff reminded him. Barrett's threat rang through his mind. "He's in danger, Gordy, and Alan is too if he's with him."

"I'm not leaving-"

" _Go_ , Gordon."

Jeff injected as much stern authority as he could muster into the command, and Gordon finally pulled reluctantly away from him. He fumbled for something in his utility belt, and handed it to Jeff.

"Hold onto this," he ordered, and waited until Jeff nodded before finally turning away, his hand lingering on his father's for as long as possible.

He shot a few anxious glances over his shoulder as he began to retreat, but soon his new mission began to overtake him, perhaps as he really began to process the combination of the words 'waterboarding,' 'worse,' and 'John.' He started to sprint down the hallway, and soon turned a corner and vanished from sight.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** It's finally here, folks! But of course, it couldn't be too easy..._


	12. From the Deep

Gordon's heart was pounding as he ran, his skin cold and his ears ringing. The wet splash of each step seemed to reverberate throughout his head, muddying his thoughts. His mind was racing and frozen at the same time, showing him over and over flashes of his father's face, of Dad tackling that guard, of seeping blood and rising water.

He was pretty sure he was in shock, but he didn't have time for that.

 _It's him, Gordy._

John. John was down here. John was _alive_.

"I'm on my way, Al," he said as he ran, following his brother's signal on the projection from his wrist cuff.

 _"_ _Hurry, Gordon."_ The desperate edge to Alan's voice made Gordon's heart pound that much harder, and he picked up his pace.

 _"_ _Gordon, what the hell is going on down there?"_ That was Scott's voice now, sharp and demanding.

 _"_ _What was Alan saying about John?"_ Virgil asked before Gordon could get so much as a word in. _"He's not- I mean he can't be-"_

"I don't have anything to tell you yet," Gordon interrupted, distracted and impatient. He knew it had to be killing his older brothers to be stranded on the surface, unable to do anything but listen to what was turning into a real perfect storm of a situation, but he didn't have the capacity to deal with them just then. "You'll know as soon as I do."

He ran into the most central sector, his wet boots squeaking on the dry floors. He didn't look through any of the doorways that he passed, his original mission having taken a decided backseat to this new one.

After a minute that felt like a week, his map showed the dot representing his position to be just about on top of his little brother's.

"Alan?"

"In here!"

Gordon spotted the open doorway from which his brother's urgent voice was emanating, and he sprinted the last few meters towards it, skidding to a halt and nearly overshooting the opening. He caught himself on the doorframe, and found himself staring into what looked like some kind of supply closet. Two bodies were crammed into the tiny space, one in familiar IR blue, the other barefoot and bruised in nothing but a ratty t-shirt and shorts.

The scene looked like a horror movie under the flickering red of the emergency lights, so Gordon tugged a flashlight from his belt and bathed the scene in white light. It didn't do much to improve matters.

Alan looked up at Gordon. His eyes were wet with tears, although whether they were from joy over finding John alive, or horror over his condition, Gordon wasn't sure anyone could say. Because John…John looked like hell. He was slumped half against the wall and half against Alan's shoulder, his eyelids fluttering in his ashen face. The only color to offset his alarming pallor was the unhealthy red of the fever spots on his cheeks, and a dusky bruise on his temple. His blue-tinted lips were chapped and stained a rusty red, and his face looked…cracked, almost, like he was an oil painting that was drying wrong. Looking at him, Gordon would have been terrified that he was already dead, if not for the shivers that visibly wracked his body.

 _Waterboarding_ , Dad had said. So why did Gordon feel like he was the one drowning again?

"Help me with him," Alan snapped when Gordon could only stand there, horrified.

Gordon snapped out of his stupor at once, reassessing the situation.

"No, you help me," he decided, knowing that his stockier, more muscular build would be better suited to supporting John's tall frame. "I'll carry him on my back."

He knelt before Alan could protest, leaning in to look at John. His big brother looked even worse from up close, but he was alive.

"Hey, Johnny, it's me." Gordon felt his voice crack, and he had to clear his throat. "It's Gordon. I figure it's time for me to pay you back for the piggyback rides you gave me when we were kids. Sound okay?"

John lifted his drooping head at the sound of his voice, but his bloodshot eyes seemed to be devoid of recognition, of much life at all. Gordon frowned at him, looking him over again. He was wearing a plain grey T-shirt, but his pale arms were speckled with drying blood, and there was an ugly bruise on the inside of his left forearm, its color a combination of old yellow-green and newer purplish-black. A small puncture wound at its center was still bleeding sluggishly.

"John, can you tell me what they gave you?" Gordon asked, his stomach turning. He'd never been good with the medical side of rescues, with the problems he couldn't see, couldn't tackle on his own. He wished Virgil were here.

"He's really out of it," Alan whispered when John didn't respond, fear like Gordon hadn't heard from him in a while straining his voice. "He keeps trying to talk about Dad."

At the mention of their father, John jerked, his eyes clearing slightly. He fumbled weakly for Gordon's wrist, wrapping his long fingers around it with what was probably supposed to be an urgent grip.

"Dad." His voice was a weak ruin of the one Gordon had so relied on in his ear during missions. "He's-"

"I know, Johnny," Gordon told him, clasping his hand. "I know, it's okay." He turned his head to Alan. "C'mon, help me with him."

Gordon had forgotten about the gun he'd stuck in his belt, but Alan's eyes went wide when he saw it. Gordon grimaced and set it on the ground, wishing he could kick the damn thing and everything it represented away from him.

"There are some bad people down here," he said, echoing Dad's words. "I meant it when I told you to be careful. Don't let your guard down for an instant."

Alan lost another shade of color at the seriousness of Gordon's tone. He said nothing though, just helped get John more or less settled on Gordon's back. John did his best to help, but whatever strength he'd had was fading fast. He'd made a pained noise as Gordon and Alan had moved him, involuntary tears pooling at the corners of his clouded eyes, but he didn't lose the tenuous consciousness he had left. He just threaded his fingers under the cheery yellow sash across Gordon's chest, his head drooping to rest on his younger brother's shoulder.

Pressed against him like this, Gordon could feel the surprising chill of John's body, the tremors rippling through him. He knew enough about pneumonia to understand that it was when the fever broke, when the temperature dropped below normal, that a person was really in trouble. It meant their body was out of fight, was giving up. It filled Gordon with unbearable urgency, but he couldn't start moving yet.

He turned to Alan, struggling to punch a command into his wrist monitor and hold onto John's legs at the same time.

"I'm gonna get John back to Thunderbird 4, but I need you to follow that beacon," he said.

"What? No way! I'm coming with you and John."

"We don't have time to argue about this! John's not crazy, Dad really is down here, and I gave him that beacon because he's hurt and couldn't follow me! He needs you, Alan."

Not the most delicate way of breaking the news, but Gordon was under just a little bit of pressure. His brother stared at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"That's not funny, Gordon," he said, his voice trembling.

Gordon more than understood his reaction, and frankly he wasn't so sure he was past it himself, but they didn't have time for it.

"Do I look like I'm laughing?" he asked. He jerked his chin at the red smears staining his uniform. "This blood is his, Alan."

Well, some of it was probably John's now. God.

Alan's gaze was frozen on the stains now. He looked painfully young all the sudden. Gordon glanced at the gun on the floor. Dad had said that John in particular was in danger, but Gordon would be with him, and he was sending Alan out alone.

"Do you remember the shooting lessons Uncle Carter gave you last year?" Gordon asked. Alan swallowed hard and shook his head. "Yes, you do. Alan, pick up the gun, take it with you, and go find Dad."

Slowly, Alan bent down to pick up the handgun. He made no move to leave his brothers though.

"Go!" Gordon hated to shout at Alan in such a state, but a barked command from Dad was what had gotten him moving, and he was hoping to do the same for his brother.

He didn't know if Alan could really believe him yet, but that did get him running, with just one last look thrown over his shoulder at his brothers. Gordon took off at the same time, although in the opposite direction, toward where Thunderbird 4 was docked. John was slighter than he remembered, but his tall frame still weighed him down, limited him to a steady jog that felt slow as molasses.

He activated his comms.

"Virgil, be ready for two incoming medical," he said. His throat was tight when he added "critical."

 _"_ _Gordon, is- is John really…?"_ He couldn't seem to make himself say the word, and Gordon didn't wait for him to figure it out.

"Yeah, he is. But he's in bad shape, Virg. He…" Gordon grit his teeth. "Tallahassee."

There was a beat of silence as Virgil processed the codeword. It had been a long time since they'd needed it. There was a beep, the sound of their connection to Alan being muted. The rest of them would still be able to hear him, but nothing they said would get through to him.

 _"_ _Okay."_

"He was tortured." The two horrified gasps resonated in Gordon's chest, but he couldn't stop. "Waterboarded. He's got pneumonia, and he's hurt. I think he might've been drugged too."

"M'all'ight," John mumbled.

 _"_ _Is that- is that him?"_ Scott asked, and Gordon had never heard his voice sound like that.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure that was him being the dumbest genius in the solar system," Gordon managed between breaths. "Because if I heard right, he just tried to tell me that he's all right, which is a bigger crock of bullshit than we had to deal with at that fertilizer warehouse fire."

John mumbled something unintelligible but vaguely protesting. Gordon ignored him.

 _"_ _John."_ That was Virgil's voice again. _"John, just hang in there, all right? Give us a chance to help this time."_

John struggled to lift his head.

"I am," he promised his twin, his voice weak but determined.

Gordon tightened his grip on his brother.

"Guys," he puffed as he ran. "I've gotta tell you something else, and you're not gonna believe me, but just keep in mind that twenty minutes ago we thought John was dead too and you're gonna see him soon."

 _"_ _Gordon, what-?"_

"Dad's alive," Gordon blurted. There was absolute silence from his comms, so he kept talking. "I found him when I was looking for people to evacuate. He was fighting some commando guy I think he and John have been held here but I don't know why. There's a lot of weird equipment in some of the labs, and…" He stumbled over the memory of that awful cell, that stark room. "…And other stuff. But it's him, guys, it's definitely him. He called me Captain Nemo, you remember, from that _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_ phase I had?"

He rambled on for a few more sentences before Virgil finally collected himself enough to speak.

 _"_ _Gordon, where's Dad?"_ he demanded.

"Alan's getting him. He's hurt, and he sent me to find Alan and John and I couldn't carry him fast enough."

 _"_ _Hurt how?"_ Scott asked.

"Shot in the leg."

Gordon wasn't sure which of them let out the pained noise. John's arm tightened around him.

"It missed his artery," he said, because he had to believe it just as much as his brothers did. "He'll be all right until Alan gets to him. He'll be fine."

 _"_ _All right."_ Virgil's voice was as steady as could be expected, under the circumstances. _"All right, we'll handle it. We need to open the channel back up to Alan now though."_

He did while Gordon kept running. Alan didn't seem to have noticed anything. Not all that surprising, considering what his own mission was.

Gordon was growing more tired by the second, but he kept up his pace, and it wasn't long before he was arriving at the airlock that connected to his faithful submarine.

"We're on Thunderbird 4," he announced. He crossed the cabin of the small vessel and tapped at a control panel on the opposite wall. One of the emergency evacuation capsules folded out from the bulkhead. "I'm sending John-"

He broke off as John's arms tightened around him suddenly.

"N-no."

"No, what?" Gordon tried to look at John, but the awkward angle made it impossible to read his expression. "We have to get you topside."

"'ll go with you," John insisted.

"I can't leave yet. I have to go back for Alan and Dad, and this base is still an emergency situation. There must be other people down here."

"I c'n wait."

"No. You can't." Gordon was no doctor, but he could tell that much.

He gently but deliberately broke John's grip on him. The fact that it was so much easier than it should've been was just more evidence that it was necessary. But when he tried to get John settled in the bed of the dry tube, his brother tore away from him and half stumbled, half fell to the other side of the cramped cabin, fetching up against the opposite wall.

It reminded Gordon too forcefully of the moment not so long ago when his father had done the same thing, had pulled away from him and the aid he was so anxious to give. Gordon had been through far too much today, and he was sick of his family refusing to let him help.

But then he actually took in his brother's expression, and his irritation froze instantly into something else. He'd never seen John so _terrified_.

His glassy eyes were fixed on the scene beyond Thunderbird 4's front viewport. Her headlights were still on, illuminating the murky waters beyond. Gordon had seen so many wonders through that portal, had always felt most at peace when he was in that cockpit and surrounded by the sea. But looking at his brother now, he realized that John saw something very different.

 _"_ _He's got pneumonia,"_ Dad had said. But the haunting in his eyes had said so much more. _"From…from waterboarding."_

Oh. _Oh_.

Gordon's stomach turned. He closed his eyes for just a moment, swallowing hard. Then he crouched in front of John and gripped him by the shoulders.

"Come on, John," he said, far more gently. "You can do this."

He tried to help his brother to his feet, but John still shied away from him.

"Gordon, no, please don't. _Please-_ "

"It's the safest way to get you to the surface," Gordon said. "You're hurt, John; you need help, and I can't leave yet."

Just then, looking at the wreckage of his big brother, a deep, ugly part of Gordon didn't want to go back for those people. He wanted to turn his back on that hellish facility and get John safely to the surface, leaving behind the torturing bastards that had created their own fates.

But that wasn't who they were, wasn't what they did. And it wasn't just the people who had done this that were still in the facility, it was Alan and Dad too.

"Do you trust me, Johnny?" Gordon asked, gripping John's shoulders and holding his frightened gaze.

John squeezed his bloodshot eyes closed, but after a moment, he nodded tightly. He allowed Gordon to help him to his feet and hoist him into the lowest dry tube. The moment he lay down though, the quality of his breathing audibly tanked. He struggled to sit up, his eyes going wide with panic.

"Whoa, hey," Gordon protested. "You've gotta stay calm, John. I know it's hard to breathe, but it's gonna be a short trip."

Yeah, because that would make everything just fine and dandy.

Gordon ran a hand through his hair, wishing more than just about anything that Scott or Virgil or Dad were here instead of him. He wasn't cut out for this kind of thing.

But they weren't here, and John was depending on him. Which meant that he had to suck it up, do his best, and hope it was good enough.

"Uh…here." The dry tubes were configured to supply an atmospheric mixture of oxygen and nitrogen, but the bluish tint to John's lips had Gordon reaching for the pressurized mask that would force pure oxygen into John's struggling lungs. "This'll help until you get to Virgil."

He hoped.

John still looked dubious, but he allowed Gordon to ease him back down. He lost a shade of color Gordon hadn't think he'd even still had, and his breathing got worse again, but he didn't try to sit up this time. Gordon squeezed his shoulder, and reached for the lid of the dry tube, preparing to close it.

The fresh terror that flared in John's expression hit him like a missile.

"Virgil's waiting for you up there, okay?" he said, wishing he had more to offer. "Two minutes, and then Virgil will be getting you right back out."

The dry tubes had little windows built into the front, to keep their passengers from getting crippling claustrophobia. Gordon got the feeling that John would take claustrophobia over a view of endless water three inches from his face in a heartbeat though.

"Just close your eyes and start counting," he said. "Virgil will be getting you out of here before you hit 120."

John looked at him for one more long moment, before squeezing his eyes shut. Gordon took that as his cue to close the pod. He checked everything a final time, and then launched John into the sea.

"First dry tube is away," he declared automatically to his brothers on the surface. More quietly, he added, "talk to him, Virgil."

 _"_ _F.A.B.,"_ Virgil said at once, and Gordon knew he understood. John was in good hands. John was _alive_.

Gordon let out a relieved huff of air, his mouth stretching into a smile for an instant. But he couldn't relax yet.

"Alan?" he called as he climbed out of the familiar safety of his Thunderbird and back out into the underwater station. Water was sloshing around his knees now, even in the main hallway. "Did you find Dad?"

 _"_ _Yeah, I've got him."_ Alan's voice was strained and breathless. He was probably bearing most of Dad's weight. _"We're on our way back to you."_

Gordon pulled up the location of Alan's comm. Only two turns separated them, and it was less than a minute before the rest of his family was in sight. Gordon had been right about Alan supporting most of Dad's weight, but their father was still conscious and upright, and he'd take it.

He hurried forward to Dad's other side, adding his support.

"John?" Dad asked, his voice strained and breathless.

"On his way to Virgil now."

None of them spoke after that. They made it back to Thunderbird 4, and Dad sent Gordon a questioning look as he led his father to another dry tube.

"You should get to the surface while we look for other survivors," Gordon explained. Dad may not have been as critically wounded as John, but he could still use immediate medical attention, and Gordon wanted him out of danger as quickly as possible.

Something darkened in Dad's gaze though, his expression tightening. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed his eyes and let out a heavy breath. There was a beat of silence.

"Be careful," Dad said at last. "Make sure Alan holds onto that gun."

After a nod from Gordon, Dad settled into the dry tube. A moment later, he was rocketing towards the surface.

Gordon turned to Alan.

"You know what to do."

Despite now knowing how dangerous it was, they split up again once they emerged from Thunderbird 4. The water would be up to their waists soon; they were running out of time to pull off a rescue.

But as Gordon made his way through the facility, it continued to be eerily empty. Such a massive place, and he had yet to see a single person who wasn't a blood relative.

 _"_ _I haven't been able to find any other prisoners,"_ Alan told him after several minutes of searching. _"And most of the staff seems to have evac- ah!"_

"Alan?" Gordon started running even as he called his brother's name, bringing up a holographic map from his wrist. He could hear the sounds of a struggle for a long, tense moment.

 _"_ _Okay, so it seems like all of the staff have_ not _evacuated,"_ Alan said breathlessly.

Gordon skidded around a corner to find Alan standing over a kneeling guard, yanking cable ties tight around his wrists.

"Seriously, who tries to attack someone who's here to rescue him?" Alan demanded when he saw his brother.

"Evil, twisted idiots," Gordon said grimly. "Come on. We've got to move."

He hoisted the guard up by the arm, ignoring the petulant look the man shot him.

"Where are the rest of your…colleagues?" Gordon asked him.

"Gone."

"What?"

"They're gone, okay? They left without me. This godforsaken bubble has four escape pods, and they took all of them."

The bitterness on his face was too real for his story to be fake. Gordon swore. On the one hand, it made the rest of the rescue considerably easier, but it also meant that the monsters who'd taken his family were getting away.

 _"_ _Guys, something's wrong."_

Gordon was getting _very_ tired of hearing those words.

"What kind of something?"

 _"_ _Dad's dry tube just surfaced."_

"Sounds like good news to me," Gordon said.

 _"_ _Yeah, except John's didn't."_

That one took a moment to land.

"You don't have John?" he asked, hearing the edge of near panic in his voice. That tube should have surfaced at least ten minutes ago.

 _"_ _John's pod has been intercepted,"_ EOS reported. _"According to the installed tracking device, it's still underwater and moving at high speeds."_

* * *

Scott was reeling as he listened to the frantic chatter over his comms. There was too much information coming at him too fast, too many earth-shattering revelations in the span of less than an hour. He wasn't even sure he knew which way was up anymore. But he was certain that John was in trouble. And this time, Scott wasn't going to fail him.

"EOS, send me the tracking data from John's dry tube," he ordered.

It was at his console in an instant, and he engaged his thrusters, sending his rocket shooting off in the direction of the signal. John must have been snatched by some kind of submarine, because no ordinary escape pod would be able to carry him that fast. But Thunderbird 1 was faster, and soon Scott's instruments were picking up the enemy craft.

He studied the readings. The beacon from John's dry tube was coming from just beside the signal from the submarine, which probably meant that it was caught in some kind of external grasping arm. That was good; it would make him easier to reach.

Scott lowered his ship closer to the water, fighting against the winds that tried to knock him from the skies. He brought up his targeting software, gritting his teeth in concentration.

 _"_ _Scott-"_

"Just give me a second, Virgil!"

He locked on, fired a cable. A few tense seconds later, his instruments told him he'd gotten a solid lock. A few seconds after that, Thunderbird 1 jerked violently as the line went taut, the unknown vessel still doing its best to speed away. Scott fired his reverse thrusters to compensate, feeling his ship vibrate with the strain. Whatever this thing was, it was powerful. He wasn't sure how long he'd be able to hold it.

"Thunderbird 4, where are you?"

 _"_ _Still at the facility! Whole sections are flooded and collapsing; we had to find a different way out. We'll be there as soon as we can."_

That wasn't soon enough. Not for John.

Scott engaged the autopilot and scrambled from his seat, making his way to the modest reserve of personal rescue gear he kept on the ship. There was no time for anything fancy; he just grabbed a regulator mask and a few other tools. And then he was opening the access hatch and clipping himself to the cable that now stretched down into the roiling sea.

He dove from his ship, sliding down the line for a few seconds before he hit the water with a breathtaking splash. It was icy, but that didn't matter. Only one thing mattered now.

 _"_ _Scott, what the hell are you doing?"_ Virgil demanded.

"Just be ready to pick him up," Scott said, his voice muffled by his mask. "And start for the nearest hospital the second you have him."

He squeezed the trigger on the small mechanized motor securing him to the cable, and let it pull him down the line, deeper into the murky water. The currents battered him, tried to pluck him from the line, but his equipment held. Pain began to build up in his ears, and within seconds it felt like he was being stabbed in the brain. He worked his jaw to relieve the pressure, but he didn't slow down. He couldn't.

He saw the bright dry tube first, its normal cheery yellow dimmed to a sickly green by the water. His heart jolted; John was _right there_.

As he drew closer, he saw that the dry tube had been snagged by a large grasping arm that extended from a large black submarine. Scott planted his feet on the top of the sub, activated the magnets in his boots, and unclipped himself from the cable that had carried him down here. He flattened himself as best he could against the surface of the sub, and started making his way towards the place where John was stuck.

The water swirled around him, tugging at him. He resisted it, dragging himself the last few feet to the base of the arm that held his brother prisoner. He withdrew a small metal disk from his belt and reached through the churning current to slam it down onto the junction where it met the body of the submarine.

He studied the placement, making sure it was secure. Every second counted now, and he began to move back, battling the currents again as he-

The explosion ripped Scott from the surface of the submarine, knocking the air from his lungs and sending him tumbling helplessly through the water. A flash of yellow-green shot past him, and he tried to follow it with his gaze, but everything was spinning around him. No, wait; he was the one spinning.

 _"_ _Scott, if you can hear me, you need to be careful,"_ came Gordon's anxious voice. _"You dove way deeper than your equipment is designed to handle, and if you try to get to the surface on your own, you're gonna get the bends. Alan and I are on our way to you now; just hold tight."_

Scott wished there was something he could actually hold onto down here. He wasn't even sure which way was up anymore. He felt himself gasping, sucking in rapid, shallow breaths that had to be burning through his oxygen supply way too fast. He couldn't find the words to reply to Gordon.

 _"_ _Almost there, Scott. Almost there."_

And although Scott could hardly breathe, could hardly see, some of his instinctual panic receded. His brothers were coming for him; what other reassurance could he possibly need?

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Sorry this chapter took so long, folks. I took a hard left into the X-Men fandom and got distracted. Hope it was worth the wait :)_


	13. Breathe Easy

Virgil's eyes strained as he stared out over the churning ocean. The choppy surface was just a few meters below him, slate grey and uninviting. Rain beat down in a thunderous curtain around him, but he was mostly sheltered by his ship. He squinted through the downpour, desperate for a flash of color. The sea had already coughed up one miracle today; now he was praying for a second.

 _"Can you see him?"_

The sound of his father's voice was still a shock. Despite Gordon's story, part of Virgil hadn't quite believed Dad was alive until he'd seen the impossibly familiar face through the window of the dry tube.

Now, with a hastily applied pressure bandage over his gunshot wound and an IV in his arm, Dad was at the controls of Thunderbird 2 while Virgil crouched at the edge of its open pod bay doors, waiting and hoping.

"Not yet," he answered his father through his comm.

Come _on_ , Scott.

The rest of his family was barely audible over the roar of rain crashing into waves. All Virgil could make out were urgent voices, strained silences. He had to trust that Gordon and Alan were handling things on their end though. He had to.

A bright yellow capsule surfaced with a splash all but lost to the raging elements.

Virgil stared at it, failing for a long beat to register what he was seeing. It was what he'd been waiting for, _desperate_ for, but the part of him that had been so thoroughly destroyed by false hope hadn't been willing to let him _expect_ it.

But there it was, a drop of sunny yellow in a hostile sea.

Shaking off his shock, Virgil snatched a magnetic cable and dove from the ship. He didn't need to, really. He could've launched the cable instead, let it lock onto the dry tube with its magnetic guidance system. It would perhaps have been the more efficient, sensible thing to do. But instinct had taken over, and he didn't fight it.

He ignored the icy bite of the water as he pushed himself in two powerful strokes to the side of the dry tube, trailing the cable behind him. He resisted the urge to hoist himself up and peek through the window. The longer he dawdled, the longer John spent trapped in a tube. So Virgil clamped the cable into place, grabbed hold of the side of the emergency capsule, and triggered the mechanism that started to haul it up to Thunderbird 2.

As the dry tube was lifted from the surface of the water, Virgil was suddenly grateful for his impulsive dive. His added weight stabilized the tube on its dangling ascent. John had already been tossed around enough; he didn't need to be battered like a piñata by the fierce wind.

The trip seemed to drag on interminably, but then at last they were being pulled into the belly of Thunderbird 2, the pod doors closing beneath them. The sounds of the storm that had been assaulting Virgil's eardrums were smothered into a muted rumbling, leaving a ringing quiet behind.

He didn't take time to appreciate the silence.

The moment they were on a stable surface, he rose to his knees and ran urgent fingers over the seam of the dry tube until he found the trigger to open it. The lid popped up, and Virgil gasped.

John was _there_. He was real and there and just inches from Virgil. And he looked like a corpse in a metal coffin.

It had been nearly two months since John's disappearance. The frantic messages from Gordon and Alan had made it clear those months had not been kind to him, that they had left him in far worse shape than they'd found him. But somehow, Virgil had still been expecting to see the brother he'd lost, the reserved but vibrant astronaut who had rolled his eyes when Alan teased him about ghosts.

This was not that man.

"John?" The name came out of him as a breathless gasp, a frightened plea.

Bloodshot blue-green eyes cracked open, and Virgil started breathing again.

"Dad, punch it!" he yelled, unable to tear his gaze away to look back at the passage to the cockpit.

"Hang on! Thunderbird 4, _do you have him_?"

Virgil frowned. But then he remembered, and guilt flashed through him. _Scott._

 _"We've got him!"_ Alan's voice sounded shaky over the comm. _"Gordon got to him in time; he's in the hyperbaric chamber."_

"Does he need the hospital?" Dad asked.

 _"No, we can handle him down here."_ That was Gordon's voice this time. _"Go, Dad."_

Dad took Gordon at his word. Virgil rocked slightly as Thunderbird 2 exploded into motion, and he returned his attention to John. He scooped his twin out of the dry tube and stood with far too little effort. John was at least twenty pounds lighter than he should've been, and Virgil could hear the wet, labored rattle of his breathing.

 _"Is he all right?"_ Dad's voice asked as Virgil hurried towards the small medical bay onboard.

Virgil didn't have an answer for him.

"You can let me out of here, you know."

"Shut up, Scott."

Alan blinked at Gordon, startled. His brother didn't look at him or Scott, just stared out through Thunderbird 4's windshield at the murky sea beyond.

Gordon was known to give everyone attitude, but he wasn't big on open disrespect. He was also rarely dismissive, for he knew well what it was like to be dismissed himself. So the hard edge to his tone was unfamiliar, alien. So was his stony expression. Unfamiliar, but maybe not unexpected.

For the hundred thousandth time, Alan found himself thinking back to that terrible night when he'd almost lost a second brother. He and Gordon had never talked about it, never so much as acknowledged after the fact that it'd happened at all, but that night at sea still haunted Alan.

Well, perhaps not just the night itself. What haunted him most was the knowledge that he'd almost been too late, and the nagging fear that next time, he might be. He didn't think those fears would ever go away. It didn't seem so out of the realm of possibility that Gordon might harbor similar fears, especially after what they'd been through today.

Alan unbuckled himself from the copilot seat, nudging Gordon's shoulder with his own as he clambered out of the cockpit and into the cabin. The hyperbaric chamber, folded out from its usual place in the bulkhead, took up most of the space. Scott, who had been stripped of his soaked uniform, looked like some kind of scientific specimen preserved under glass. A lifeless relic displayed for bored kids to peer at, a faded memory not yet wholly lost.

Doing his best to shake off those thoughts, Alan plunked himself down on the floor beside Scott's head and drew his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them.

"You almost drowned, Scott," he said, and his voice sounded almost as strange as Gordon's. "You're staying in the chamber."

Unbidden, memories of the previous hour rushed through his mind.

The explosion that had freed John from the sub had damaged the reserve oxygen tank built into Scott's suit, letting the already limited supply of air bubble out to be replaced by frigid seawater. And Gordon and Alan had been so damn _far away_. Thunderbird 4 was by no means a slow ship, but the water had seemed to turn to molasses around them. Alan still felt jittery from the useless, agonizing energy that had coursed through his body as he willed them to go faster, knowing they couldn't.

Scott's body had been limp and motionless when Gordon dragged him aboard. It had taken just seconds to rouse him, but each of those seconds had been utter hell.

Never again in his life had Alan wanted to face the possibility of losing another brother to the sea. Never had he wanted Gordon to do the same.

Something about his expression must have conveyed at least some of what he was feeling, because Scott didn't argue. He just slumped back against the contoured gel bed of the hyperbaric chamber, letting out a heavy breath. He closed his eyes, and Alan felt the need to look away from the raw vulnerability that overtook his expression for a flash of an instant.

"You saw them."

It took a moment for Alan to realize Scott was talking to him.

"What?" he asked.

"John and Dad. You saw them."

Alan couldn't help shivering slightly.

Yes, he'd seen John. He'd seen the blood, old and new, that stained the clothes he hadn't been wearing when he disappeared. He'd seen the way John struggled to focus on him, the way it was sheer, flat, disbelief that had transformed his features when he first recognized Alan, not relief.

And then he'd seen Dad. He'd seen Dad waist deep in water that was stained pink as it rose around him. He'd seen the new lines on his father's face, the new slump in his shoulders. He'd seen the tears that gathered in Dad's eyes when he spotted his youngest son.

"Yeah," was all he said.

It was going to be a long ride to the hospital. They'd had to wait with Thunderbird 1 and the captured submarine until the GDF arrived to take over. The delay had taken only twenty minutes, but it felt like an eternity. Alan suspected their trip back to the mainland would be just as painful, even with the tow line from Thunderbird 1 granting them extra speed.

Scott was silent for a moment. His eyes were open again, but they stared sightlessly at the top of the chamber.

"Do you think they'll-?"

"Alan, I need you up here."

Alan frowned but followed Gordon's summons, joining his brother in the cramped cockpit of Thunderbird 4. As he sat in the copilot seat, Gordon tapped a command into the computer.

"What do you need?" Alan asked him. Gordon's expression was grim and set, his knuckles whitening as they returned to the controls of his beloved submarine.

"I needed Scott not to finish asking that question."

With the speed of Thunderbird 2 at his disposal, Dad had chosen quality over distance and flown to London, to the hospital where International Rescue had dropped off more than a few people over the years. It was there the remaining Tracy boys arrived by taxi of all things, after having been forced to leave Thunderbird 4 docked in the Thames. Having been released at last from the pressurized confines of the hyperbaric chamber, Scott led the charge to the familiar emergency department, his two youngest brothers close at his back.

It was hard to say which of them looked the worst. Alan and Gordon were both sporting bloodstains on their drying blue uniforms, blond hair spiked with salt and sticking in all directions. And Scott…Scott had gotten dressed in a hurry with limited options. On his list of immediate concerns though, their appearance didn't even rank. So he ignored the startled expression of the young man at the desk as they approached.

"Jefferson and John Tracy," Scott said, trying to use his CEO voice to regain some illusion of control over anything at all. "They should've been brought here about an hour ago."

"Y-yes, of course." The man tapped something into the screen before him. "Your brother told us to expect you."

Virgil had probably left out the fact that they'd be showing up looking like they'd just lost a fight with a sea monster.

Within moments, an older woman in a pantsuit was striding towards them. She apologized with polite firmness when the three young men immediately started pelting her with questions, telling them she wasn't a medical professional, and didn't have any news about their family. Instead, she was there to show them to "somewhere they could wait more comfortably."

Scott realized with an unpleasant lurch that they were being _handled_. He'd always hated that, hated the fact that it often came with the territory of being rich and running a business. He was the only one among his siblings old enough to remember what it had been like before their father got quite so famous and wealthy, the only one who knew how to miss it.

Before he could lose his tenuous grip on his control and tell her to cut the crap though, the woman - Sharon - stopped them in front of a closed door.

"You can wait with your brother in here. Someone will come to notify you when there's-"

None of them bothered to listen to whatever else she had to say. Alan was already pulling the door open, and Gordon shoved him through it to expedite the process. Scott was less than a second behind them.

"Virgil!"

There were plenty of comfortable-looking chairs in the private waiting room, but Virgil was standing, his arms dangling at his sides. His dark hair was disheveled, but it was nothing compared to the rest of him. In all the chaos, he must not have had time to change out of the suit he'd worn to John's funeral. He'd lost the jacket, and the shirt that had once been white was now stiff with salt and stained an unmistakable rusty red.

His eyes were shadowed and haunted as they fixed blankly on a point halfway up the wall. He didn't even look at his brothers as they rushed into the room, but he clearly noted their entrance.

"They wouldn't let me stay with them," he said, his voice dull.

Despite the instinctive wave of dread that crashed through him, the sight of his brother forced Scott to take a deep breath, doing his level best to center himself. This was one situation in which he could actually do with being handled a little, but they couldn't _all_ fall apart. Virgil was normally the person who did the handling, but he didn't appear to be up to the task at the moment.

Scott took a slower step forward, waving at Gordon and Alan to keep quiet when he could see they were about to start pelting Virgil with questions. He drew closer, putting a hand on Virgil's shoulder.

"Hey," he said gently.

"Dad's in surgery," Virgil said, still not looking at him. "He was still bleeding, but he was conscious. They think he's gonna be fine."

"That's great," Scott said.

It was. It was a miracle the likes of which he hadn't let himself hope for in years.

But celebration was impossible. Unthinkable. And they all knew it.

Taking a deep breath, Scott tightened his fingers on Virgil's shoulder.

"Is John…?"

"He was alive when we got here."

Scott tried not to flinch at the use of the past tense.

"But I don't…on the way here, he…" Virgil pulled in a long breath, exhaling it in a ragged _woosh_ a moment later. "I, uh. I had to intubate him, because his breathing was...uh, not. I think- his lung. All the fluid, I think it might have collapsed, so I- I…"

Scott felt the shudder that rippled through him.

"I did everything I could."

"Of course you did," Scott said at once, and he wished his voice had come out steadier. "Of course you did, Virgil; no one else could've done more."

Now, it was Scott's turn. He used his grip on Virgil to steer him to one of the padded seats, easing him down into it. Virgil seemed to resist automatically, but then he all but collapsed into the chair. He slumped forward, dropping his head into his palms. Scott sat down beside him, wrapping an arm around his broad shoulders. He looked around at the others.

"They're strong," he said. "Both of them."

Virgil said nothing, but Scott hadn't expected him to. He got quiet when he got scared, when he felt helpless. Alan and Gordon were just as silent, both of them pale as ghosts. Alan had a streak of blood across one cheek. Scott knew the blood wasn't his, but suddenly he couldn't stand the sight of it.

He stood and crossed the room to his youngest brother, wiping at the spot with his thumb. It was the kind of thing that would normally have had Alan squirming away with a complaint that he wasn't a baby, and for Scott to stop mothering him. This time though, Alan just stood still, his eyes as shadowed as Virgil's.

Once the blood was gone, Scott sat him beside Virgil, and did the same with Gordon. He couldn't quite make himself join them though. The best he could do was stop himself from pacing, since he knew it would only increase his brothers' anxiety. As it was, the waiting was a special kind of hell.

It was Gordon who spoke first.

"I made the wrong call." His eyes were haunted with guilt. "I forced him into that dry tube. He didn't want to go; he wanted to wait for us. If I hadn't-"

"Don't," Alan said before Scott could. "Don't do that to us. It's done."

Gordon scowled, and Scott could sense an argument brewing. Not because anyone was at fault, but because this whole ordeal had been the most trying situation they'd ever faced, and they could only be pushed so far.

Scott had never been the best at diffusing tension. He was usually one of the ones that had to be diffused. But there was still someone who had always been able to manage them, someone who should've been called hours ago anyway.

"We've got to call Grandma," he said. "And Kayo. They should be here."

"Shit, the funeral," said Gordon, straightening with an alarmed look. "They all still think-"

"I'll take care of it," Scott said, standing. He crossed to the corner and lifted his wrist, punching in the command to call Kayo. There was a beeping noise from somewhere above him, and he looked up just in time to see one of the ceiling panels shift aside and his foster sister drop to the floor beside him. He blinked at her.

"I'm almost not sure I want to know, but what were you doing in the ceiling?" Gordon asked, sounding more like his usual self than he had since finding Dad.

"Recon," Kayo answered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "My drone mission ended a while ago, and EOS called me. I've been trying to keep an eye on John and your dad."

"And?" said Alan.

Kayo took a breath. No one who didn't know her well would've seen the way she shook just slightly.

"Your dad is out of surgery; he's going to be fine." It was only confirmation of what Virgil had already told him, but it felt like something monumental. A shiver seemed to go around the room. "We should be allowed to see him soon," Kayo added.

She paused and took a deep breath. Scott wrapped an arm around her, and she leaned into him.

"I couldn't get to where John was," she said, undeserved shame in her voice at the perceived failure. "They've got a special area for cases of immune systems as compromised as John's, and it has restricted access and its own air supply. I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Scott told her, squeezing her shoulders.

"And, hey…" Alan spoke up, managing a small, tired smile that made him look both older and younger than the baby brother Scott was used to. "It's amazing news about Dad."

It really was. And it needed to be shared.

Letting go of Kayo, Scott retreated to the corner again to make the call.

It wasn't the hardest conversation he'd ever had, but it was up there. Because even though the news _was_ amazing, it was also overwhelming, staggering, and it came with what Scott was fairly certain would turn out to be a horrific tale. Grandma was one of the strongest people he knew, but there were just some things no one was equipped to handle.

It helped when Lady Penelope stepped in. She was just as shaken, but she remained as calm as she always did under pressure. She promised to have Parker fly her and Grandma to the hospital, and then she told them to look after each other as she signed off.

The silence that fell in the wake of the call was stifling. Scott looked around at his family. Alan was sitting on the edge of his chair, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed and face ashen. Gordon had drawn his feet up onto his seat and was hugging his knees to his chest, chin resting on them as he stared at nothing. Virgil was slumped back against the wall and had his head tilted, staring with an empty gaze at one of the lighting panels in the ceiling.

Scott tried to think of something to say to them, but the words eluded him. He fought the feeling of being right back in that icy ocean, choking on the water that had nearly swallowed him whole.

Before they could wait much longer, the door opened. They all looked up as one, to see Sharon standing in the doorway. This time, she was accompanied by a younger woman in dark grey scrubs.

"This is Dr. O'Brien," Sharon said. "She's been treating your father."

That was when she seemed to notice Kayo. She looked at her a bit askance, but said nothing as Dr. O'Brien stepped forward. Her eyes traveled over Alan and Gordon's stained uniforms, Virgil's battered formalwear, and Kayo's sleek flightsuit. But she didn't make a single comment, and thus gained a significant boost in Scott's esteem.

"I'll start by saying that your father is going to be fine," she said with a small smile. They'd heard it already, but there was still something reassuring about getting the words from a medical professional. "We took care of the gunshot to his leg. The bone reconstruction went well, and with a little rest and physical therapy, he should recover full function in his leg. Aside from that, he was chronically exhausted and undernourished, but there were no other significant physical symptoms. He should be waking up from his anesthesia any minute now, and I'm sure you'll all want to see him."

That was something of an understatement. Those who hadn't already been standing were on their feet in an instant, and they hurried for the door in a disorganized rush. Instead of stepping aside to let them pass though, Dr. O'Brien raised a hand.

"I understand your brother was also brought in," she said, and just like that she had their undivided focus again. "I was able to get an update from one of John's doctors before I came to see you."

Suddenly, Scott couldn't breathe. He was both desperate for her next words, and terrified of them.

"They've got John stabilized," the doctor went on. "They're managing his symptoms, and they're trying to isolate the specific strain of bacteria making him sick so that they can give him a more targeted antibiotic than the one they've got him on now, which will help to speed his recovery."

Silence followed her words as they all tried to think through the implications of what she'd just told them. Scott was still barely breathing.

"So…he's not going to die?"

Dr. O'Brien gave Gordon a gentle look.

"No," she told him. "He's got a long recovery ahead of him, but he's not going to die. Not today, not tomorrow, and hopefully not for a very long time."

Jeff had done his best to fight the doctors when they tried to sedate him, not wanting to be out of commission until all of his children were safe and accounted for. But despite Virgil's efforts, he'd been losing blood steadily for over an hour, and it took its toll. When he'd started slipping in and out of awareness, he'd known the battle was lost.

There was little respite to be found in unconsciousness, but it came for him anyway.

He didn't know how much time passed before it loosened its hold on him. It was reluctant to let him go entirely, keeping him distant and fuzzy, promising him respite from the dull pain awaiting in his leg. He could hear the faint sounds of life in the faraway realm of the conscious. There were low, calm voices, footsteps, quiet hums and beeps and buzzing of equipment. None of it registered as important, enough to pull him further into the real, painful world.

But then there were louder footsteps, closer ones. They stopped though, and Jeff lost interest, starting to drift again.

"Dad?"

And there it was, something capable of drawing Jeff from the drunken stupor of his sleep.

His eyelids felt heavy as lead, but he forced them open, persisting even when painful brightness stabbed into his unsuspecting pupils. He blinked the pain away and looked to the side, gaze settling on - _Scott_.

Words got lost somewhere between Jeff's brain and his mouth, so he just looked, taking in the sight of the son he'd missed so much. Scott was frozen, his eyes wide and expression stricken. He was, for reasons unknown, dressed in flip-flops, sweatpants six inches too short for him, and an eye-wateringly yellow t-shirt with _TB4_ emblazoned on it.

There were still so many damn clouds in Jeff's head, and he could do little but watch as Scott's legs seemed to lose the ability to support him. That was when he noticed the second person who had come into the room.

Kayo caught Scott by the arms, murmuring something to him as she propped him up. Eyes drawn to her, Jeff felt a complicated stab of pride and sadness as he took stock of how much she'd grown and matured since he saw her last. But then she was guiding Scott closer to the bed, and Jeff refocused on his son as the young man all but collapsed onto the side of the mattress.

It took more effort than he would've liked, but Jeff lifted a heavy hand and settled it over Scott's, fingers curling around his shaking ones.

The gesture seemed to break something in Scott, to snap some final tether of control. He slumped forward, collapsing against Jeff as the shaking spread to his whole body.

Jeff was instantly transported back to a thousand other moments, from the first time Scott was placed in his arms, a squalling, wriggling miracle, to the time he'd taken a curb wrong and gone vaulting over the handlebars of his bicycle to a bone-breaking landing, to the first time they'd lost someone on a rescue. Just as he had each and every one of those times, Jeff pulled Scott in close and held him tight, murmuring comforting nonsense in his ear, promising him that he was _there_.

One of the aches he'd been carrying in his chest since the day he was captured lessened just a little. He closed his eyes, treasuring the hard-earned moment.

When he felt Scott's shudders beginning to ease, Jeff looked up to Kayo, who was watching the scene with eyes that were brighter than usual. He gave her a smile, infused with warmth and gratitude and a thousand other things impossible to shape with words. He freed an arm from Scott and reached out to her. She hurried to the other side of his bed, settling herself down with far more grace than Scott had.

Jeff took her warm hand and squeezed it, and she nodded at him. He'd give her a proper hug later, but for now, he knew they'd already exchanged everything they needed to.

"The others?" he asked her, his voice coming out as a cracked rasp.

"Virgil, Gordon, and Alan were apparently a biohazard, so they're getting cleaned up," she told him, passing him a plastic cup of water as she did. "They'll be here soon. John…" She smiled, and relief hit Jeff hard enough to knock the wind out of him. "He's still not in great shape, but he's stable."

Although his throat was parched, Jeff couldn't take a drink yet. He pressed his face into Scott's shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut again as he struggled to hold himself together and keep breathing at the same time.

One, two, three, four, five; that was how many seconds he allowed himself to hide against Scott before pulling back. This was his first chance at being a good father to all of his children in far too long a time, and he didn't intend to squander it by breaking down when they still needed him.

He cleared his throat, and its ache reminded him of the water Kayo had given him. He took a sip, and Scott sat up to make the task easier for him, but made no move to leave his side. Jeff took the opportunity to survey him more carefully.

"And you?" he asked his son, remembering the chaos of those last few moments at the rescue site. Remembering the fear that had stabbed into his gut as he realized what Scott was planning to do, and again when the half-baked plan went dangerously wrong. "How're you doing, Scotty?"

"I'm fine, Dad," Scott dismissed, his voice edged with something almost…dark. "It was nothing."

Something about the way he said it triggered Jeff's parental instincts, but before he could say anything, Scott continued speaking.

"We've been working with Colonel Casey and the GDF since you've been gone," he said. Jeff already knew this from talking to John, but Scott still didn't give him the chance to interrupt. "We handed the whole situation over to her, including the man who attacked Alan during the rescue. The GDF was able to catch up with the sub, and everyone onboard is in custody now. Colonel Casey said she'd send a team down to investigate the facility, although they'll have to drain it first. But it - everything's being handled. So you don't have to - I should be helping them, I don't need to be sitting around here-"

Some kind of nervous energy seemed to have overtaken him, and he straightened his spine, rising to his feet as if to leave.

"Woah, hey," Jeff protested, grabbing his son's wrist before he could pull away entirely. He shot a mystified glance at Kayo, before returning his focus to Scott. "You belong here. I trust Colonel Casey to take care of things for now."

Especially now that he knew the submarine had been secured. Barrett had to be on it, which meant any revenge plans he might have been harboring would be impossible to act on. Jeff's family was safe.

Scott's expression pinched, but he didn't try to pull away. Before anyone could say another word, three new people appeared in the doorway, and all eyes turned to them. Some generous soul had found scrubs for Virgil, Gordon, and Alan, and they looked like a team of nervous interns with only the faintest idea of what they were supposed to be doing there.

Jeff felt a tired smile break out over his face as he surveyed them. They were pale and exhausted and shell-shocked, and they were the most wonderful sight he'd beheld in two years. He watched them as they filed in silently, emotion welling in his chest. He couldn't forget that one of their number was missing, but this, here, was so much more than he'd ever hoped to have again.

Swallowing past the lump in this throat, he let his smile widen.

"It's good to see you boys," he told them.

Alan let out a hiccuping laugh, and dropped down onto the bed beside Scott. Jeff folded him into the embrace they hadn't had time for down in that hellish facility, holding him tight. He looked at the rest of his boys over Alan's shoulder, watching as Gordon leaned into Virgil's side, and Virgil placed a hand on Scott's shoulder.

It was an imperfect reunion, full of holes and raw edges and things left unsaid. But Jeff would take it, and be glad.

Once enough hugs had been exchanged and everyone's eyes were mostly dry again, Jeff knew it was time to provide the explanations the boys and Kayo were all desperate for. He guided them through the same story he'd given John weeks ago, watching as storm clouds descended over their expressions. He was surprised and impressed to find out they'd already suspected Barrett, that Scott and Virgil had even confronted him.

He couldn't say he was thrilled to hear about that particular incident. The thought of Barrett anywhere near his other children was enough to make his blood simmer and his stomach turn. But he didn't dwell on it. Rather, he moved on to an explanation of what had happened to John.

Tried to, at least.

Jeff had always been a firm proponent of owning your mistakes, of not being ashamed of them so long as they were taken as learning opportunities. Jeff had done his best to teach by example in that regard.

But sitting there in that hospital bed, looking around at the family he'd raised, these remarkable individuals who had always looked up to him, viewed him as a role model, a hero, he found the words sticking in his tight throat.

How was he supposed to tell them he was responsible for their brother's torture, for the fact that they'd been mourning him for two months?

But he owed them the truth, no matter how painfully it would cost him. So he gave it to them.

"It's not your fault," Kayo was the first to say once he'd finally gotten the admission out.

"Of course not," Alan chimed in before she could go on. "You couldn't let that guy hurt all those people. John knew that."

Jeff focused on his youngest. Alan still looked weary and drawn, older than a boy his age had any right to look. He'd grown, Jeff could see that, in more ways than one. And here he was, offering his father absolution.

The wave of emotion that crashed through him was blindsiding, and he found he couldn't say anything at all. His throat seemed to have swollen shut, and his eyes burned. His eyes darted away from Alan's face, and he saw the same lack of blame in Gordon's face, in Scott's.

In a day of miracles, this was a precious one.

There was plenty Jeff had missed as well, and his kids took it upon themselves to fill him in. This turned out to be a bit of a chaotic affair, what with there being five of them all trying to tell what they felt were the most important parts of their story. It was the kind of organized chaos Jeff had gotten used to long ago, and the kind he hadn't realized he'd been missing so desperately. He didn't even try to impose order on the situation, just sat back and tried to let it sink in that he really was back with his family.

Kayo vanished at some point, and Jeff was told that she was probably hiding in John's ceiling. While the revelation sent a pang through him at the thought of John, isolated from visitors in his fragile, uncertain state, it also brought a small smile to his face.

As he listened to his sons, Jeff became more and more convinced that they were leaving out a number of details. He didn't have any particular foundation for his belief, other than the fact that he knew these young men better than anyone else in the world, and his instincts were telling him so.

But he didn't interrupt, didn't call them to task. They had the certainty of time now. Jeff would have the chance to sit with them all, one on one, after they'd had time to process and react. He would have the chance to get to know them again, to talk everything through with them individually, to tease out their hurts and burdens and fears. Until then, he would let them tell everything as they needed to.

They'd arrayed themselves in a tight cluster on and around the bed, and Alan and Gordon were in the middle of a good-natured argument Jeff was struggling to keep up with when there was a knock on the door. They all looked up to see a doctor entering the room. This woman was older than Dr. O'Brien, who'd already stopped in to check on Jeff. Her grey-streaked hair was braided back from her dark face, and she carried a tablet in the crook of her arm.

"I'm Dr. Sorenson. You're John Tracy's family, yes?" she asked, glancing down at her tablet.

The focus in the room sharpened palpably, and Jeff sat up as best he could.

"That's us," he said, although he suspected she was already certain of the answer. "I'm his father."

"You have a very strong son, Mr. Tracy," the woman told him with a smile.

Didn't Jeff know it.

"How is he?" he asked.

"Recovering. We were able to identify the specific bacteria making him sick, and he's responding well to the targeted antibiotic. The infection should clear up within a few days. Now, there's been some damage to his lungs, and his body and immune system have been weakened. He's going to feel pretty crappy for a while, and I'll want to keep him here for at least a week, but I see no reason not to expect a full recovery."

She gave them all another smile, pausing to allow them to ask whatever questions they might have. Jeff had plenty. He wanted to ask about the effects of the other things John had been through, about compromised immune systems and psychological trauma and where they were supposed to go from here. But the boys were all still listening intently, and he didn't want to give them any more unnecessary burdens.

"Can he have visitors?" he asked instead.

"So long as precautions are taken to minimize the amount of germs carried into his room, absolutely. We've kept him sedated, but we're weaning him off of that now. It might be a while before he wakes up, but it would do him good to have some friendly faces there when he does."

Jeff nodded, wishing Dr. O'Brien hadn't expressly forbidden him from leaving his bed until she gave him clearance to. He'd have to see about getting himself moved to John's room.

"Did I hear that one of you was the person who provided first aid on the way here?" Dr. Sorenson asked, looking between Virgil and Scott. Virgil lifted a hand, his expression twisting a little, and she focused on him. "You probably saved his life. There's a good chance he would've suffocated without that breathing tube."

The words seemed to hit Virgil like a physical blow. He flinched, shaking his head.

"They saved his life," he said, waving at his brothers. "I just got him here."

Looking more closely at his middle son, Jeff frowned. Virgil had been the quietest among the small group since their arrival, and there was something about the set of his shoulders, the shadows in his eyes, that suggested John wasn't the only one facing a long road to recovery.

"Go," Jeff said to his sons. "Sit with John. I'll come join you when I can."

The indecision was clear in their faces. They wanted to see their brother, but they didn't want to stop seeing Jeff. He gave them a warm smile.

"It's all right," he insisted. "He needs you more now. I'll feel better knowing he's got you with him."

That did it. With a few last glances over their shoulders at him, the boys trooped out of the room. Jeff watched them go, feeling just the slightest bit of relief at the chance to compose himself without them looking to him for strength and support.

He leaned back against his pillows, exhaustion pressing down on him like a blanket. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept, really slept, unburdened by the fear of what he might wake up to.

Despite the thoughts and emotions still whirling through him, he'd almost drifted into a light doze when he was lifted from it by the sound of a voice growing louder.

"He's just in here." That was all the warning Jeff got before the clouded glass door to his room was sliding open.

"Oh." The familiar voice was uncharacteristically faint, stunned.

The air rushed out of Jeff's lungs. Just like that, he might as well have been ten years old again.

"Mom?" He heard his voice crack, but he didn't care.

She'd been staring at him in shocked silence, but now she crossed the room in three strides, reaching out. Jeff sat up to meet her, and then he was in his mother's arms. He clutched at her, suddenly desperate for the strength, the support, the peace she'd been a source of his whole life.

He didn't even realize he'd started crying until he felt her hand stroking through his hair, heard the soothing whisper of her voice in his ear. This time, he didn't fight the oncoming tide. This time, he didn't have to be the parent, didn't have to be the strong one. There were still a hundred things to be dealt with, a thousand worries on his mind, but there, in the embrace that held a lifetime of comfort and safety, Jeff finally let himself fall apart.

* * *

 _ **A/N** : Again, sorry for the slow update! I had a very busy semester and then several long weeks of writer's block. But I would never abandon our boys, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter! We're nearing the end now, but there are still at least two chapters to go :)_


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